Paraoxym
by alaricnomad
Summary: Peter/Claire. "They were being watched, observed, analyzed like lab-rats. He felt sick as he remembered the exact reason he had been brought here." Captivity. Perversions. The point of no return, and no other choice. AU from S1, set 2 years later.
1. one

A/N: I'm going to hell for this. Just when I thought I'd racked up my sins, here comes this story. This, especially this first segment of the storyline, is very different from anything I've done before. It's darker and a little twisted, as well as potentially uncomfortable to some readers, but at the same time, I hope I can keep the elements I see most in Paire- their trust in each other, and the love they hold.

I haven't done anything with Paire since Crossroads and Dance with a Stranger. This is a weird way to make a comeback, but if I'm going down, I might as well do it in style.

**Warnings: Rated for sexual content, language, and obviously being mostly canon, incest. This chapter includes coercion toward sex from an outside party and mentioned voyeurism. **

--

**--Paroxysm--**

The room he was led to was nearly twice the size of the cell he normally occupied, immediately giving off an impression of cold sterility. His heart caught in his throat at the sight of the slender girl seated upon the bunk attached to the wall opposite of where he stood. She was huddled in upon herself, knees drawn to her chest, head lowered, tangled golden curls escaping her ponytail falling forward to shield her eyes from view.

She was fragile, delicate, painfully young and achingly beautiful. He grimaced as he spotted out of the corner of his eye the camera upon the wall, following their every move; the large tinted observation window taking up most of the wall seven feet above him. They were being watched, observed, and analyzed like lab-rats. His stomach rolled with sudden nausea as he remembered with startling clarity the exact reason he had been brought there.

Lab-rat indeed. He felt more like a servicing stallion put out to pasture. Nothing more than an animal.

God, he felt sick.

He exhaled sharply, shocking himself that he could even manage to choke out her name, "Claire."

Her head shot up with the hoarse whisper of his voice, green eyes wide and full of a strange array of emotion regarding him; wary trepidation, relief, hope and even resignation summoned at the sight of him.

…his gun-shy mare…

…more like a filly, so very young- God help him- she was little more than a child…

He felt sick again, aching and potent. He wondered idly if they'd allow him the bathroom if he couldn't keep down the oatmeal he managed to force down for breakfast- he'd refused lunch the moment they made their proposal of what exactly was expected of him that day.

"Have they hurt you?" her voice, soft and tentative, broke through the silence between them.

He numbly shook his head, feeling pained as he realized they had threatened her with the same inclination they had given him. "You?" he inquired throatily, palpable relief flooding through him as she slowly shook her head.

"Thank God," he breathed, daring to take a step forward, freezing immediately as she backed away in response.

Hurt- irrational as it may have been in their situation- clouded his expression, and Claire winced at her own reflexive reaction. "…it's not you, Peter…it's…it's this…thing they want from us…"

Peter nodded wordlessly, looking away. Claire watched him closely. She took in his bare feet- more than likely cold against the bare floor- lean legs encased in a faded pair of jeans, not the same pair he'd worn the day of their capture; she was surprised at the small courtesy. She had least when given a regular change of clothing; Peter had been stuck in the same grimy outfit every time she saw him. A thin wife-beater made no effort to hide the sinewy muscle of his body, not yet lost of its sleek build, despite the fact she knew he refused food on a regular basis.

The sight of his severely short hair was still one she was getting used to. They had forcefully taken an electric razor to his head the first day- making it easier, one guard had crudely remarked, to see the pain on his face when they beat him. She had been witness to three of those beatings so far, restrained back as they took clubs and feet and fists to a defenseless Peter, the bitter weight of the Haitian's power hanging relentlessly in the air around them.

The Haitian. She had caught a glimpse of the man who once tried to save her life, apparently back to being lapdog. Always…always did his power reverberate almost painfully through her, muting her awareness, tapping off the power ingrained into her very DNA. It was the same with Peter, closing off the power that had become so much a part of his being, taking away the healing that connected him to her.

Peter…he was like a ghost of himself without that power. He looked so pale, so tired, his face wearied and haggard with burdens beyond his years. Surprisingly, he'd even been allowed a clean shave, though the lack of beard shadow only worked to emphasis the purple bruise on his left cheek, a half-healed scar etched into his chin.

She stepped closer, tentatively laying her hand against the side of his face. Peter leaned into the touch, his eyes slowly closing as her fingertips stroked his cheek, traced along his jaw-line.

"Peter, can we really do this?"

Peter found himself remembering one of the more recent beatings he'd endured- one Claire was unfortunately present for. Peter had stupidly refused a direct order to simply return to his cell after being taken out to shower, unaware they were leading Claire out into the corridor for the same purpose as he mouthed off.

He fought back against the fist aimed for his abdomen, managing to ground his assailant. The sudden clicking of a trigger and he froze, the fighting leaving him immediately…at the sight of a .45 automatic being aimed at the back of Claire's head. Little hands trembling, clutching at her shirt, filled his memory, along with the wide, frightened green eyes that met his panicked gaze.

The same had been threatened if he didn't go through with what was demanded of him. They still knew little, very little of their kidnappers or their intention, but he obviously knew one thing now: they were at the mercy of a sickly perverted and blatantly voyeuristic individual.

He was to sleep with his own goddamned niece.

Peter Petrelli let his eyes close with resignation, horror and a dozen different feelings he could not even begin to define; images of those frightened eyes, the echoing click of a gun, the suffocating reminder of the Haitian's nullifying power weighed down on him.

He deeply inhaled. Slowly let it out. Let his eyes open. Framed her face in his hands. Whispered to her, "Do you trust me?"

"Completely," she did not hesitate for a moment in her response.

Slowly, gently, with the utmost care he had ever shown anything in his life…he kissed her.

--

Sitting in said man's campaign office, Matt Parkman watched re-election candidate Nathan Petrelli pace irritably across the floor, murmuring constantly under his breath. His frustration was a nearly tangible thing, culminating in every dead end the law enforcements and his personal connections reported back to him.

Detective Matt Parkman owed a lot to Nathan Petrelli- at Peter's prodding, it had been Petrelli connections had him hired to the New York police force at a time when his record had been anything but spotless, and his estranged but pregnant wife had been send him divorce papers.

But even without the debt to the congressman handing over his head, Matt still would have been first in line to give his all to the ongoing investigation- the reason lying in just who it was that was missing.

Five days since anyone had heard from or seen Peter Petrelli or Claire Bennet; three days, seven hours and forty minutes since Nathan had received the first threat from the kidnappers.

They were his friends, dear friends at that. Claire had only recently turned eighteen, such a sweet girl with a bright future ahead of her- sheer golden potential seemed to radiate from the girl these days. Peter was a good pal, a quiet and noble man Matt couldn't help but admire, with a heart nearly as big as the entire city of New York.

He watched as Nathan slammed his phone down onto his desk, collapsing into his chair, his eyes closing in pained resignation as powerful shoulders slumped forward, his face buried in his hands.

Sadly, it was the most human Matt had ever seen him.

--

Claire trembled against him and Peter's arms encircled her, holding her in a loose embrace she could break away from with ease if she so chose. But it was Claire who initiated the next kiss, firmer and more insistent than his own.

It was an unpracticed ardor she radiated, but one he intended to cultivate, as he splayed his hands against her back to pull her flush against him, responding with such a soft passion no other woman had stirred in him before.

"They're watching, aren't they?" she whispered sadly as they broke apart. She looked up at him, a hand pressed against his chest, his cradling the back of her neck.

A sidelong glance at the familiar cameras bolted to the ceiling and he offered her a bittersweet smile, leaning his head against her temple, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she brushed her fingers against his cheek, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "I'm glad it's you."

"Me?" He took her hands, gazing at her quizzically.

She nodded, looking down at her hands as he held them, slowly entwining their fingers. "We're still…you know…but…I trust you, and I know you care about me. That you love me in the most basic sense of the word. That's what matters."

He looked at her much as he had one small moment two years before, as she stood at the door of a jail cell in Odessa and called him her hero, his eyes filled with such awe and appreciation, caring and warmth. She was sure she would never find another man on earth who could compare to Peter in that moment.

"You're amazing, Claire." With those quiet words, he kissed her again.

She slowly opened to him, deepening the contact, and she was pliant, warm and utterly alive against him. With gentle coaxing, she was wonderfully responsive as he lifted her to him, her arms linking around his neck and legs draping around his hips.

Breathless, he whispered to her then, settling her weight against him as he crossed the room. "Trust me on this, sweetheart. I'll take care of you, I promise."

Her heart warming both at his caring and the endearment, she shyly nodded against the crook of his neck, peppering chaste kisses against his face. He kissed her softly and then set her down on the bunk, frowning down at the cramped space. She watched silently as he stripped blankets and pillows, making up a makeshift bed on the floor, forming layers to ease discomfort against the harsh surface.

Peter stared bemusedly at the bedclothes, offering her a wan smile, "We'll need room," he softly explained, shrugging one shoulder, "Though we're a bit fortunate. You've got a lot more blankets."

She returned his smile, commenting wryly, "That's explainable. Those Neanderthals out there are so sure of my 'delicate female disposition'."

He gave her a crooked grin, reaching out to take her hands and help her to her feet. "Delicate, no. Female, yes," his voice lowered, "And a beautiful one at that…" She blushed.

His eyes followed her movements as she lay out against the bed, her gaze locked on his movements as he removed the wife-beater, unfastening and pulling down his jeans to bare himself down to his underwear, "Are you sure about this?"

"Do we have any other choice?"

He smiled sadly, lowering himself down to her level. "What we can choose, is to take this slow, take our time with this." He sifted his fingers through her hair, releasing the blinds of her ponytail, allowing the silken mass to tumble haphazardly around her shoulders.

His fingers brushed against the nape of her neck and she shivered, Peter leaning forward to press a kiss to her collarbone, pushing aside her collar to gain better access. Their eyes met once more, Peter searching for any discomfort at his ministrations.

As he pulled up the shirt and cast it aside, she ran her fingers through the coarse bristle of his hair, drawing him into another kiss, more a soft acknowledgement of what was to come than an act of passion.

"Your first time?" the intimacy of her question brushed against her ear and at her curt, embarrassed nod, Peter was silent.

He let his body do the talking for him.

Peter, above all things, proved himself to be a gentle lover, passionate in his kisses, careful and precise in his caresses, seeking not only to arouse her body but to comfort and soothe the fear her mind still possessed. He kept his hands and lips constantly at work, keeping that same slow, steady pace until she forgot anything and everything but him.

As he released the catch to her bra, he pulled a sheet up to drape over their torsos, at least offering cover to keep from the voyeurs their more intimate interactions as he lowered his head to explore her. Teeth scraped gently against her collarbone, Claire sucking in a quick breath of surprise at the new sensation.

His hand stroked her clothed hip, silently reassuring as he continued on, his lips a sweet burn against her skin as he trailed them to her chest. Soft, airy moans punctuated the air as his mouth closed over a breast, tongue circling a peppled nipple, gently suckling.

He delighted in the heightened pitch of her breath, the way she subtly arched her body into his, the way her hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping at his scalp. She whispered his name, her voice thick and hazy, and the moment she rolled her hips against his, his mind almost stopped working all together.

He blinked, nuzzling her neck as he breathed in the sweet scent of her, sharply exhaling as the jumbled pieces of his brain fall back into place and realign. He reevaluated, feeling oddly numb as his actions took on a predestinated air, hands purposeful instead of caressing.

As if she felt the change, her eyes fluttered open to lock on his and Peter couldn't even try to smile as he hooked his fingers into the thin material of her bottoms, Claire's expression clouded but accepting as she allowed him to finally bare her down to nothing.

She was wet for him, but tense and taut as a bow beneath the press of his body as he slid his hands between her thighs. He nibbled at her shoulder, stroking nimble fingers against her sex, pressing the warmth of his palm against her inner thigh, subtly urging. She squirmed, obediently letting her legs fall open for him and he gently slid a finger into the heat of her.

He combed a hand through her hair, guiding her head to press against his neck, hiding that beautifully animated face. Giving the bastards watching them the satisfaction of watching her reactions as he stroked her into her first orgasm was not something he was going to allow. No way in hell would he subject her to that.

She whimpered against his neck, digging her fingers into his shoulders as he stroked and caressed, slow, rhythmic thrusts of his fingers the more her body relaxed to the intrusion, the tantalizing brush of his thumb as he found her clit.

She fell apart then and there.

Peter grunted at a sharp sensation at his shoulder, but he ignored it as he sought to comfortingly bring her down instead. She was trembling violently, clinging to him after he brought her to the pinnacle and beyond. She opened her eyes to be met by a splash of bloody crimson staining the olive skin of his shoulder. It was nothing serious, just a few stray droplets, but the wound was accompanied by the imbedded marks of her teeth and Claire released with a start just how hard she had bitten him in an effort to stifle her instinctual cry.

She apologetically pressed her mouth to his shoulder, his eyes darkly dilated as they clung to hers, focusing on the movements of her lips and tongue as she soothed the wound, the first time since they'd started that she had voluntarily touched him in such a way.

There was not really time to hesitate and Peter steadied himself with that sickening realization, shame he could not prolong this for her, give her the attention she really deserved. But their spectators weren't known for their patience, and Peter had finally gotten what he needed out her. She was as ready for him as they were going to get the chance for.

Feeling the weight of those cameras, the phantom eyes burning into his back, he wasn't sure if he could stomach really, really making love to her in this place, in this room, in this circumstance- the ugly reality of what he was about to do was enough to stifle any other thought from his mind.

His hands pressed to the back of her thighs, gently pushing her up to reposition himself. "Put your legs around me, Claire," were his only whispered instructions and she obeyed, slender limbs draping around his hips. He stared down at her as he rested himself between her legs, bracing his arms on either side of their entwined bodies.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered desperately into her ear, kissing cheeks he knew would soon be wet, at his fault.

He pushed forward, and their world was changed forever.

--

Her body still shivered with the aftermath of climax he had managed to coax her body into. Her core still throbbed with the taking of her hymen. Her heart still ached for so many reasons her brain was still too muddled to fully discern.

She focused on him, attempted to forget the red stain against the sheet he pulled out from under them and threw aside. She closed her eyes, feeling his soft touch as he reached between her legs, using what she had recognized as his discarded shirt to gently wipe away the evidence of what they'd done.

There was nothing to be said in the aftermath, Peter's hands gentle as ever as he slowly redressed her, guiding her back into his embrace as they lay together against the tangled blankets. She clung to him, nuzzling against his naked chest, trying her best to block out the lingering smell of sweat and sex. She tried to shut out the memory of him tearing into her and the healing she'd wished so fervently to return.

The pain had been inevitable- he had not forced, but slow and gentle meant nothing when she could not open to him in the discomfort of her surroundings. Faceless eyes on them, she couldn't relax, and all the more her hero, even Peter couldn't have saved her from the fear and pain of losing her virginity to her uncle in watched captivity.

She focused on the pounding of his heartbeat, remembered his face as he moved inside her in deep, steady strokes that deafened the pain and soothed her body into the friction of release it needed. She tried her hardest not to think of the way the beating echoed with the continual ache between her legs, tried instead to think of the tender way he had touched her.

He held her close, and she remembered the promise that he'd take care of her. His fingers combed through her hair, his lips brushed against her temple and his free hand gently stroked her hair. She knew he would do anything and everything to keep his word. Here, at least, in his arms, she was safe, and loved, if only for a few stolen moments.

She nestled closer to him, and wondered idly if she would even sleep that night without him nearby.


	2. two

A/N: Ah, it's good to be back. I haven't felt this enthusiastic toward Peter/Claire since I wrote Dance with a Stranger (for those who remember the uber-long Paire epic I finished last year).

**Warnings: See chapter one. Keep in mind this may contain content not suitable for some readers. **

**--Paroxysm--**

Peter lay listlessly across his narrow bunk, staring sightlessly at the ceiling above. With a heavy sigh, he tucked his arms behind his head and shifted against the uncomfortable mattress, exhausted but resigned to another sleepless night. He closed his eyes against the glare of the overhead lights, letting out another sigh. It used to bother him that his "hosts" refused to dim the lights at night, but now he was grateful for it. The contrast illumination kept him from falling into too heavy a sleep, giving a certain degree of alertness to any unseen intruder. Not to mention, it helped to not be blinded by the dark.

Though he knew it had only been a few days, it was far too long since he had seen Claire. They took her from him that night, no matter how much he fought and protested to keep her with him. She'd cried and clung to him, stirring up even more that protective, loving instinct inside Peter. But she was tired, sore and emotionally exhausted; it didn't take long for her to give in to be led away back to her room. Peter had been dragged back to his as well. He'd flown into a rage the moment the door closed on him, throwing his bedclothes and breakfast dishes, shouting and pounding on the walls. His whole body ached to have Claire back, to have her back with him where he could protect her and keep her safe.

Most of all, he just wanted her back in his arms.

They hadn't sent the guards in. Instead, a voice had crackled and spoken over the loudspeaker, monotone as ever, but distantly amused. He was told to calm down before they were forced to tranquilize him. If he behaved, he would see his niece again soon. Peter had deflated at that, reluctantly falling into begrudging agreement. He spent the next two days in silent obedience, the only thing keeping him from lashing out at the smug guards being the lingering hope that he would soon see Claire.

The unmistakable sound of the hinges creaking in the heavy metal door leading into his cell filled the air and Peter groaned, rolling onto his side to face what he expected to be the night watchman making his rounds. What he found was nothing of the sort.

The first thing he noticed was the lack of uniform the place's guards habitually wore. Instead, the man was wearing a suit and tire, appalling tweed but classier than the white-on-white uniform Peter was used to all the same. He was middle-aged, a little stout around the middle in a way that pulled at the buttons of his coat. Brown hair was balding down the middle, a pair of glasses perched upon the bridge of his nose, and his eyes were a murky sort of hazel, nothing all that striking. Indeed, there was outwardly memorable about the man; he gave off more the impression of a mild-manned salesman than anything more sinister. But if there's one thing Peter had learned, it was to not judge a book by its cover. That, and to trust his instincts, and his instincts were telling him there was something off about the man standing before him.

Said man gave him a genial smile, raising a hand in greeting as he stepped closer. Peter sat up and faced him, tense and guarded as he regarded every move the other made. The stranger then finally began to speak, "Mr. Petrelli. I'm sorry to have woken you. I apologize for the late hour, but I've been indisposed most of the day. This was the only time I was available to come see you."

Peter narrowed his eyes, but didn't reply, only giving a curt nod in response. The other man continued. "Now, I seem to have the unfair advantage of knowing who you are without returning the courtesy. My name is Robert. I've been the one overseeing your care since you arrived."

The empath snorted derisively at his definition of 'care' but Robert chose to ignore his interruption. "There seems to have been a complication in our last procedure. I'm hoping you could help me shed some light on what went wrong."

Peter straightened, no longer bored nor amused. "What complications?"

"You seem to have difficulties following orders, Peter. Your instructions were clear of what was to happen with the girl. Full copulation…and yet, you failed to finish the process. Why?"

It took a few moments for the meaning of tweed-man's words to settle into Peter's mind, and when they did, he was surprised he didn't get sick with the way his stomach rolled in answer. He remembered what Robert saw as his blunder. He may have been coerced, but Petrelli pride forbade him from giving in completely. His brows rose, lips twisting into a look of disgust.

"You're angry that I pulled out," he murmured incredulously. He remembered that well; leaving the warmth of her body at the last minute, his guilty finish staining the sheets, bringing Claire to climax by hand. "You forced me to violate my niece in the worst way possible, and you disapprove that I chose not to hurt her again."

Robert crossed his arms across his chest, his expression stern as if lecturing a wayward student. "You don't seem to understand me, Peter. We're going to try this again, and I expect you to do so completely, from start to finish."

"You can't be serious. You know the risks to that-"

Robert held up a hand to silence him. "I'm well aware what the risks are. However, the consequences will be much direr if you choose not to do as you're told."

Peter scowled at him. "What if I said no?"

The bespectacled man gave him a queer sort of half-smile. "Then you ought to remember that there are worst things a person can experience than dying, Mr. Petrelli."

Peter blanched, and with a self-satisfied smirk, Robert left him alone with only his stunned silence for company. There was no chance sleep would come that night.

----

"Peter!"

Oh God. Claire.

She flew into his arms, racing across the room the moment the guard opened the door. And the way Peter had of welcoming her lifted the fear and pain her heart had known of late. He wrapped around her, holding her close but gently, brushing kisses to her forehead and cheek, before resting his cheek against the top of her head and letting out a deep, shuddering sigh. "Claire…"

Claire buried her face in his chest, hands fisted tightly against his shirt, clinging to him as if he would disappear right in front of her. And honestly, that was a plausible fear in her mind. Since she was little, one of Claire's biggest fears was to be left alone. With the solid presence of her adoptive family growing up, it had been more an equivalent of the monster in the closet, but after the events of her sixteenth year, the fear of losing her loved ones was a harsh reality. In this place, she was constantly afraid of losing the man who in two years time had become her everything.

"Peter…Peter…" the best she could do was repeating his name again and again, a mantra reflecting the fervidity with which she was trembling against him. When her knees buckled out from under her, Peter lifted her into his arms. He may not have been a very tall man, but Claire was as light as her petite frame suggested, so it took little effort to carry her back across the room. He lowered her onto his bunk, following after as she immediately scooted back to him.

"Thank God you're here." He breathed into her ear, brushing her lips against the top of her head. "I've missed you."

"I missed you too."

She turned onto her side to face him, wrapping her arms around his middle. He responded, resting one hand against her hip while the other rested over her shoulders. Claire buried her face in the curve of his neck, sliding a leg between his and Peter cradled her against him, bodies molded so close they couldn't feel where one ended and the other began. "Are you okay? I mean…" he cleared his throat, "They treated you alright?"

Claire nodded against his neck, her hold on him tightening. "It was fine. But I missed you…I hated that they took me from you." She whimpered softly, nuzzling against his throat. "I wanted you so badly, Peter."

"Me too," he kissed her forehead, her temple, "Me too, sweetheart." The endearment fell without hesitation, as he felt and heard his desperate need to be with her reflected in both her words and body language. "But I'm here now, and I'm not going to let you go again."

Claire sniffled, though she did seem calmer as she snuggled into the crook of his arm. "How can you be so sure of that?"

"They'd have to kill me first."

She shivered. "Please don't talk like that."

"Claire…" As much as he hated to do it, he had to make sure she realized the reality of their situation. That the truth is, he would do everything in his power to make her safe, but he may not make it out of this place alive.

She shook her head furiously. "No, Peter! I've watched it happen twice. I won't see it happen again."

_Then I'll make sure you don't see_, he thought silently to himself, but sighed resignedly and relented into letting the topic go. He ran a hand through her hair, kissed her head once more. "About the other day…are you alright? Do you still hurt?"

At the pure, awkward concern in his voice, Claire couldn't help but smile, nuzzling against his skin in appreciation. Faintly, she remembered the look on his face the first time he entered her body. Besides the pain, the one thing that would always stick with her was the pale look of horror that had been Peter's expression, so pained and so regretful at having to hurt in any way. "I'm fine, Peter. I was sore for awhile, but it's better now."

"I'm glad."

She sighed contently, cuddling further against him. Peter smiled softly at the gesture and the hand splayed against her stomach brushed upward to stroke her back. "Peter?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

He combed a hand through her hair, fingers gently massaging her scalp. Claire leaned into the touch, letting out a pleased murmur. "Of course. You know you can tell me anything."

She braced a hand against his chest, leaning up to meet his eyes. "I love you," she stated, soft and matter-of-factly. She watched as his eyes widened with surprise, but when the corners of his mouth cocked into a pleased smile, her confidence was bolstered enough for her to continue. "I know it might sound weird, 'cause we never say it with those…things between us we never talk about. But I feel like it's something I should say." She nestled back into him, resting her head against his chest. "I don't even know how to define the feeling, but I want you to know. I do love you, Peter."

Peter could only nod along with her in agreement. It was a feeling and a confusion he could share with her all too well. A deep, steady love and connection, unsure how to define it, neither feeling just familial or friendly, just romantic or sexual. It was a kind of love that transcended categorization, and after everything that happened, whether it came to the point where he found himself only doting on his favorite niece, or passionately in love with her, Peter couldn't find it in himself to care about definition.

Their hands entwined, fingers interlacing as his palm covered hers in enveloping shelter. "I love you too, Claire. I don't know how to define it either, but you mean so much to me. I think you should know that too."

She smiled, lifting her head once more to rest her hand against his chest as her fingers splayed out, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her palm. Peter returned the smile and to her surprise and pleasure, leaned down to gently kiss her. She languorously responded, reaching up to cup his jaw. And then he couldn't resist kissing her again, and again once more. They parted and he brushed his nose against hers. "Claire…"

"Hmm?" She looked up at him at him through her lashes, her eyes warm and her mouth slightly swollen from his kisses.

He brushed the back of his fingers against the side of her face, stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I'm sorry. For the other day. I know I'm not exactly your first choice of lover, but in any other situation, I would have done anything to make it better for you." His eyes were dark with regret, his smile sad as he continued. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Your first time should have been special."

Claire propped herself up to be able to face him more fully. "Peter, stop. You did everything you could for me. You took such good care of me." She pecked his lips. "I don't regret it being you."

"Really?"

She smiled warmly, kissing him again with reassurance. "Really."

He hesitated for a moment and then reversed their positions. He guided her to lie on her back, leaning over her. Claire looked up at him quizzically, but he returned her gaze with a tender look to his eyes, running his fingers through the golden hair fanning out against his pillow. "I want to make it better for you."

"You mean…?"

"Hmm-mm."

She bit her lip nervously, still apprehensive, but looking up at the man she trusted more than anyone else in her life, she nodded her assent. "Okay." Peter smiled, stretching out over her, and Claire slipped her arms around his neck, more ready now to give herself over to him.

His lips caressed her cheek in slow, sweet kisses, slowly trailing down to trace her jaw-line. She let out a low murmur of content, her head dropping back to give him access to her throat, Peter moving his head to explore the new territory bared to him. He sighed softly, intoxicated with her, natural scent and creamy, smooth skin filling his senses. At the same time, his hands stroked her, running them up to just beneath her breasts down to her hips, there and back again. Her lips parted into a small moan and Peter leaned down, pressing his mouth to hers.

She mewled with approval with the slow, seductive slide of his tongue against her, the caress of his fingers as they cupped her chin. He gave her another short kiss, gently tugging down her bottoms. Claire guided his lips back to hers, eagerly wiggling out of the pants to feel the full press of his body to hers. He lifted up and shifted his weight, supported by bent knees on either side of her. He made his way down her body, earning her moans of pleasure with each wet kiss pressed to her skin through the fabric of her clothes, her breath catching as he reached his intended destination.

"Love you," he murmured once more, warm hands gliding up her legs and gently parting them, his head disappearing under the blanket covering their bodies.

----

Later that night, Claire found herself shaken awake in the aftermath of a nightmare. She'd been allowed to share Peter's bed that night, but after two days and three nights without him, the lingering stress wasn't allowing her a peaceful sleep. Violent shudders coursed through her, and she tightened the blankets around her into a tight cocoon, suddenly and hyper-sensitively aware of the arm resting around her waist as her movement caused Peter to shift beside her, consequently pulling her closer to mold against his body. She turned in the sheltering circle of his embrace, touching trembling fingers to his face.

Startled out of his sleep, Peter opened bewildered eyes to feel the feather-light pressure of cold fingers against his cheek, and then soft lips pressing to his. His eyes widened as he half-heartedly returned the kiss, more concerned with the moisture against her skin as he cupped her face, tracing his thumb along her jaw-line, the way her body shook as she straddled him.

The kiss was close-lipped but nowhere near chaste, and she trembled ever more fervently against him, her hands fisting in the material of his t-shirt. He broke away, pushing away stray blond curls falling in the way of tearful, fear-filled eyes staring back at him. "Claire," he breathed her name, "What are you doing?"

She shook her head and shifted against him, the soft sounds of her sobs breaking his heart even as she leaned down to him again, trailing heated kisses along his neck.

He bit back a groan, inwardly berating himself as she moved again, rocking slightly against him, and he felt himself harden beneath her. "Claire, wait…talk to me…"

She shook her head again, more forcefully this time and she bumped into his chin, soothing her blunder as she pressed a kiss against the soft stubble of his jaw, her breath fanning out against his skin ragged and baited.

"You heard them, didn't you? What we're supposed to do tomorrow, perform on cue like we're some kind of animals…I can't do it again, Peter." She sobbed again, pressing her face to his neck. "I want to be with you, for real, not when and where they order." He opened his mouth to refuse as he realized just what it was she was asking for, to tell her this was far from what she needed. "It should be about us, not them," she whispered, and then she moved against him again, fingers clenching and unclenching so that nails scratched over his chest…his resistance broke, collapsed and fell away.

All that existed after that was Claire…Claire, Claire, Claire…

There was desperation in the way her hands tore at his clothing, a quiet hunger to her kisses, and he melted into the heat of it all. Her mouth fixed over his and he buried his face in her hair as he responded, his lips parting obligingly at the insistent press of her tongue. He panted for breath as he reluctantly pulled away, "Wait, sweetheart. Slow down. Let me do this right."

Claire only shook her head and kissed him once more. "No. Can't wait."

He groaned low in his throat as her hands slipped beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, wrapping around his arousal. Peter bucked against her hand, arching up to shuck the trousers off, naked skin to naked skin as he lay back over her.

His knee nudged between her legs, her thighs parting to cradle him against the center of her body. He loomed over her, his eyes darkened with ardor but hesitating. Claire laid a hand to his cheek, guiding his face to hers. She kissed him, teasingly catching his bottom lip between her teeth and eliciting a growl from him as he instinctually rocked into her in response.

"Peter," catching his earlobe, tracing her tongue along the shell of his ear, "Want you. Please."

His hands clutched at her hips, her legs locked around his waist and he entered her. As he moved inside her, he wasn't sure whether he was destined to drown, or burst into flame in some twisted form of spontaneous combustion, threatened to lose himself completely in her.

Her hands clutched at his head, fingers tangling in his hair as her back arched, hip moving in rhythm with him, urging him on. "Harder, Peter. I won't break."

The fragility of her in his arms contrasted her statement, but he obeyed, taking her with hard, fast strokes that jolted the bed and had them moving against one another urgently.

Her appreciative moans sounded in his ears, and he buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, murmuring incoherently against her skin, babbling words he barely made out, "beautiful," listening to him answer him with heated whispers, "feel you," feeling her tighten around him, "so good." She held him almost convulsively to her as she came, the world whiting out before his eyes as he followed her into climax, emptying inside her with a last few short, stunted thrusts.

She lay there afterward, her body so sated it was a strange, boneless sensation enveloping her as she slid back against the tangled sheets of his bed, the comfortable weight of him lying between her legs. His head rested against her stomach, eyes lowered to half-mast shapes with lazy contentment as she absently combed her fingers through his hair, felt the odd sensation of his breath against her skin every time he exhaled.

She pressed her lips against his temple. "A guard tried to make a move on me earlier." She felt him bristle and tense at that, but she continued to run her hand through his coarse hair, silently requesting he calm himself. He reluctantly complied and didn't move away, allowing her to continue. "One of the doctors got in the way. He was pretty angry. Said they didn't want to take any risks when I wasn't seeded yet. Peter…does that mean what I think it means?"

"I think so."

"…oh…"


	3. three

**Warnings: See chapter one. Keep in mind this may contain content not suitable for some readers.**

**--Paroxysm--**

_Fourteen months later…_

To the normal naked eye, the facility was abandoned. However, Noah Bennet was not your average man, and skepticism and suspicion were all part of the job. Cocked gun in hand, he silently crept down the empty hallway, eyes alert to any possible movement ahead, around and behind him.

And speaking of behind…

At the sound of footsteps at his back, Noah tensed, whirling around to aim with expert accuracy, only to be face with a wide-eyed Nathan Petrelli, hands held up defensively. "What the hell, Bennet?!"

Noah rolled his eyes. He supposed he should have recognized those expensive Italian loafers, and now the fact that Petrelli couldn't take orders. "You were supposed to be checking out the back rooms," he quietly accused.

"We did," Nathan responded, narrowing his eyes as the accusation in the other man's voice, nodding in the direction behind him. Noah took the opportunity to notice Mohinder Suresh following at his heels, Detective Matt Parkman and a few of Bennet's own agents farther away.

"And?" Bennet prompted, with barely disguised impatience.

"Nothing. Zilch. Nada. It looks like everything's been cleared out."

Noah nodded curtly, turning back in the direction he had been heading. "Alright. There's one wing left." He could tell they were all starting to have their doubts, but after over a year of searching, this had been their most promising lead they had had, and Noah could only pray this would be the _one_.

Unspoken, they split in half, three to each side of the hallway. Six doors down the right side of the corridor, Suresh gave a sudden shout and everyone rushed to see his discovery. Crowding into the doorway, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light, they finally found what they had been looking for.

Lying tightly entwined on a small bunk against the farthest wall, were the unmistakable forms of Peter Petrelli and Claire Bennet-Petrelli. Peter was bared now to nothing more than a pair of generic, navy boxer-briefs, looking thinner and smaller in frame than Bennet had ever seen him. His face was turned away, stubbly cheek not the least bit obscured by shorn hair cut close into a near buzz-cut. His back was to them, sheltering most of Claire's body against his torso. Claire was wrapped around him, arms around his middle, face hidden in his chest, blankets obscuring the rest of her. The only distinguishing feature was long blonde tresses falling against the sheet.

Though there was no blatantly obvious match to their identities, he instinctually knew the pair couldn't be anyone but his missing daughter and her elusive uncle.

Slowly, his face clouded with trepidation and fragile hope, Nathan crossed the space between them. He hesitated for a moment before reaching out to lightly rest a hand against the sleeping man's shoulder.

Peter's reaction was instantaneous.

Peter sprang to attention, scrambling off the bed with an unexpected grace and speed. Despite being violently jarred by her bedmate, the girl behind him barely reacted, merely rolling over and nestling back into the warmth he had left behind. Peter immediately put himself into action, leaping at Nathan, his closest target.

Nathan stumbled back with surprise, trying feebly to fight off his brother's sudden furious fists. Peter landed a hard blow to his abdomen before the politician could recover enough to fight back, attempting to restrain Peter by grabbing his arms. Peter flailed with protest, growling in frustration as his brother struggled with him.

Parkman and two of the three anonymous agents rushed forward to help, forcing Peter's arms behind his back to hold him fast. Peter threw himself against their hands, pushing and pulling, his eyes wild and flashing with rage, his expression dark in a way that was almost savage. It was in that moment that Noah noticed several bruises marking his face, including a black eye and several purple and blue spots blemishing his cheek and jaw.

Glancing at the other Petrelli brother, he could tell Nathan had noticed the same thing, seeing his clenched jaw and the barely restrained anger in his dark eyes.

Peter continued to fight despite obvious reddening beginning to form around his wrists and forearms. "Don't touch her," he snarled, the venom in his voice startling despite the violence he had been showing since awakening.

"Suresh, do something!" Bennet snapped at the doctor, seeing his struggles tiring and hurting the young man more than helping him. Mohinder immediately obeyed, removing from his pocket the emergency kit they had loaded in case. Securing a medium sedative, Nathan was motioned forward to provide a more comforting touch, Noah taking the needle from the good doctor as he was more likely to be able to handle Peter's physical protests.

Peter was held tight as a stubborn vein was finally found and the needle inserted into his arm, earning growls and grunts from an irritated empath. He fell into Noah within a few minutes of injection, clearly dazed. Despite that, he locked eyes with Noah, hissing out a clear, "_Mine_."

His fingers flexed, seeming to contemplate reaching out for the other's throat before he was slapped away. Whirling his head around, he was faced with Nathan, and he glared again. "You can't have her," he snapped firmly, teeth bared, "She's _mine_."

With that, he passed out, leaving all the men around him completely bewildered.

Noah was the first to snap back to reality, nodding to Mohinder. "Suresh, check on Claire." The fact his daughter hadn't moved during the entire exchange was incredibly worrisome. Mohinder nodded, making his way to the girl's side. He knelt down, brushed the hair out of her eyes, and firmly tapped her cheek a handful of times. Receiving no response, he pulled a flashlight from his kit, pulling up lids to check her pupils. He frowned, but clicked off the light, rising back to his feet.

"It appears she's merely drugged."

"Merely?" was Nathan's piqued comment.

Mohinder glanced at him. "The prognosis could be far worse. I don't detect any outward indication of a head injury, but nothing's conclusive. My guess is some form of sedative, stronger than what I gave Peter. His physical condition is so weak nothing steroid-based was required. Claire, however, with her lack of basic responses, is likely on a tranquilizer."

With that, Bennet had had enough. "Parkman, take the men and search the offices we saw before. Files, surveillance, video footage, other equipment; anything that could give us a clue what happened here. Let's get the hell out of here was soon as possible."

Noah was the one to lift Claire into his arms, the girl hanging limply in his embrace as if a rag doll. Seeing her in nothing more than a thin, men's wife-beater, goosebumps rising up against her pale skin, he snagged the blanket from the bed, snugly cocooning his daughter with it. Seeing Peter lifted out on a makeshift stretcher, Noah followed after, carrying his little girl out into safety for the first time in one year and two months.

----

The private hospital they were transferred to specialized in being as quiet and discreet as they were good at their job. Peter and Claire's case was forwarded to a physician Mohinder trusted, a Dr. Andrew Carr.

Both families had been called. Heidi, along with her and Nathan's boys, were on holiday in Paris with Angela. Both wife and mother were relieved to hear the news, but would not be returning until the next weekend. Calling the apartment he shared with his family in Manhattan, Bennet arranged with his wife to have their son Lyle spend the night at a friend's house, and then Sandra rushed to the hospital to be with her husband and daughter.

After an hour of testing, examination, and admittance forms, both uncle and niece were resting in separate rooms. Nathan paced the hallway, watching, disgruntled, as Suresh conversed first with Noah. The two men's heads were bent together in conversation, but Bennet soon dismissed the doctor to comfort his worrying wife. It became obvious as he placed a hand at the small of the woman's back and guided her to a room that Claire had been cleared for visitation. Nathan was practically dancing out of his skin by the time Suresh came to him.

"…I'm still uncertain what lasting damage this ordeal may have-"

"Clarification, please."

Mohinder pursed his lips. "Peter is about five foot, ten inches. And the average weight for a male his size would probably be about 150-180. Peter's always been on the leaner side, but-"

"What's your point, Suresh?"

"What I'm saying, Mr. Petrelli, is that the exam showed Peter weighing in at barely 100 pounds." Nathan's eyes widened. "Your brother is severely underweight, Congressman. He's clearly emaciated and malnourished. He also shows signs of physical trauma, evident in several scars that didn't completely heal."

"Didn't heal? Pete's as indestructible as my daughter. Don't think I didn't notice those bruises. What the hell happened to my brother?"

"We haven't gotten back the results of the blood tests-"

"Suresh…"

Mohinder sighed, conceding to the Congressman's persistence. "My best guess is a drug to counteract his abilities. The Company had developed something similar years ago." He narrowed his eyes in thought, addressing the other man with a rare casualness. "Nathan, it's obvious your brother hasn't been able to heal in months."

Nathan's lips pursed but he said nothing else on the subject. "What about Claire?"

Mohinder hesitated for a moment and then cleared his throat, looking back down at the clipboard. "Oddly enough, Claire is the exact opposite. She's still a little undernourished, her iron and vitamin levels are a little low, but overall, she's in fair physical condition. She's actually put on some weight since her exam last year, but it's nothing unhealthy."

He looked up at a frustrated sigh leaving the other man, taking in Nathan's dark look. "Congressman?"

"Peter," he grumbled, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if his brother's name was the answer to the entire situation. For all Mohinder knew, in all that he felt he was missing, it could very well be. He sighed himself, uncomfortably patting the politician's shoulder in a faint gesture of support. "Well, then. Dr. Carr will be monitoring more closely over their conditions. If you'll excuse me…"

Nathan responded with a silent nod, and the geneticist took his leave. The Congressman took this as his own cue to see his little brother.

The hospital was quiet, empty and cold. A dim glow spilled in through the tiny window from the corridor just beyond the door, illuminating the lithe figure on the bed opposite. Bathed in the soft light, the pure white of the sheets gave him an unearthly look, making him seem to almost glow with his ashen pallor, as Nathan made his way to Peter's bedside.

It made his stomach knot as he clearly saw every point of what Suresh had been pointing out.

He was thin, so thin Nathan could see the faint outline of his lower ribcage. There was barely a pound of body fat on him; his body was small and compact, all hard angles and tight muscle.

He was not certain how long he stood there, just staring like a deer-in-the-headlights as he stood at his unconscious brother's bedside. He barely flinched when the doctor Suresh was working with, Carr, came into the hospital room.

"…from Dr. Suresh's notes, I've been told a side-effect of Claire's healing ability is an unusually high metabolism. In short, I'm guessing both your daughter's and brother's bodies' burn calories in at least half the time as say, you or I…"

Nathan flushed with shame. He hadn't known that little fact. He remembered the way Angela had been disapprovingly snide, constantly, about Claire's eating habits. The way Claire's eyes had always darkened at her grandmother's comments, ones Nathan had never bothered to contradict. It wasn't as if the girl stuffed herself full of junk food; it was just that she had a healthy appetite one didn't usually see in a "lady" as Angela would approve of. He had often wondered where a young woman her size put it all. Now he knew.

"…it's obvious the people holding Ms. Bennet and Mr. Petrelli captive didn't take that fact into account. It might explain some of their malnutrition…"

Neither had he. He remembered teasing Peter, once a forgetful eater, about the way his own appetite had increased, saying Pete was trying to keep up with a niece determined to sample every type of cuisine New York had to offer.

Into the night hours, there was a slow cycle of physicians, nurses and visitors through the two rooms. Nathan wasn't really aware of how much time had gone by, or how that time had passed. The only thing he was aware of was the repetitive beeping of the heart monitor, and the slow rise and fall of his brother's chest as he breathed with reassuring life.

Nathan was a sight to see and unusually rumpled with his suit jacket thrown aside. His tie was undone and hanging around his neck, suspenders down and sleeves rolled up. He was pale and drawn, bags under his eyes and frown lines deepening around his mouth.

Bennet had come in at some point, standing nearby, and both men made quiet conversation at Peter's bedside. "How is he?" Noah inquired.

"Stable," Nathan replied, "He hasn't woken up yet."

As if to be contrary in a way only little brother could, a low groan contradicted his statement, drawing both men to turn toward the other in the room, watching Peter's eyes flutter open as he finally came back to consciousness.

Bleary, bloodshot hazel eyes stared at them, his brow furrowing with confusion, and then wincing at the pain from his swelling bruises. He grunted, struggling to sit up. Without thinking, Nathan placed at hand against his chest to gently push him back down, only to have Peter's shot out to grab his wrist, his eyes clearer and guarded, but slowly gathering recognition.

"Pete," Nathan said calmly, "Let go. You're safe now."

With another guttural sound, Peter dropped his hand, his head rolling back against the pillow as he took in the sight of Noah. "What's going on? Why am I here?"

"You're in the hospital," Noah answered, "We found you in the facility you were being held captive in."

"…what…?"

Nathan sighed, and tried again. "Pete, what do you remember?"

"...I don't know...I don't remember..."

Still hazy from the tranquilizer and his ordeal, Peter answered their bombardment of questions and inquiries the best he could, but even he could tell it was getting them nowhere. Just when Noah was about to concede to Nathan's frustration and suggest they let Peter rest, there was a muffled padding of feet running down the hallway. Claire Bennet appeared in the doorway, blonde curls in disarray, looking disheveled in a terrycloth robe belted over a hospital gown. She ignored both of her fathers, only having eyes for the man in the bed nearby.

She shuffled across the floor, Nathan barely having time to move out of the way lest they ended up colliding. Peter was little more than half-conscious, facial expression slack with listlessness, eyes drooped and half-lidded with drowsiness. He said nothing as his shifted over, lifting up his arm. Claire did not hesitate, kicking off hospital slippers before she climbed into the bed with him, fitting perfectly into the circle of his arm. He wrapped his arm around her and she snuggled up to him, resting her head against his chest. Peter's eyes closed, and within a few moments, it was clear he had fallen asleep.

Bennet vaguely noted his wife's appearance after their daughter. Both he and Nathan were speechless, and from her place against Peter, Claire silently stared at them, wordlessly challenging them to separate them from the familiarity and safety of her bedmate.

The entwined uncle and niece left an unsettled sensation in the back of both fathers' minds. They stared, both men remembering Peter's half-coherent possessive claims back at the facility. "Sandra," Noah began quietly, "Maybe you should take Claire back to her own room."

"Pish-posh," his wife responded, clucking her tongue. "You'll leave her where she is. That girl's been crying and fussing and worrying since she woke up. This is the first time I've seen her calm all night. She'll stay right where she is. She needs the rest."

Claire closed her eyes as she visibly relaxed, breathing out a relieved sigh.

And there was little the two fathers could do but surrender.

----

_A malicious wind swept down the empty boulevard, bending even the mightiest of the trees to its will, scattering fallen leaves and discarded litter is a flurry of movement around his feet, fluttering the edges of the long coat he pulled tighter around him against the freezing chill. And so he walked on, drawn almost against his will to a familiar vantage point that had become his haunting, staring into the lit windows of a house he knew he should have avoided for rational reasons. But his heart spoke, drawing him closer, and no amount of logic could stop him._

_He stared through these windows, a stranger on the outside, and it was the girls he saw first. Nearly twins if not for the fact they were a year apart, they were mirror images of their mother, beautiful, young, and endearingly innocent in her likeness. Hair in the richest of gold, teasing, light smiles, soft, warm green eyes. They sat playing peacefully on the cream colored carpets of the living room, far too occupied with vibrantly colored toys and miniature dolls to notice anything more._

_Angie. Alexis. He knew the names given to them at birth, he knew their ages, the day they celebrated each year as they turned another year older. He knew, but it was not his right to know._

_She __stepped suddenly into the room, and his awareness of anything more in the world disappeared just as abruptly. All things tangible or intangible, fantasy or reality, right or wrong, good or evil, all of it vanished completely in the wake of her presence._

_She was like an angel fallen from heaven, even more beautiful with the years (though he knew logically she did not age) in a way that took his breath away. Sunny hair fell in silky waves down her shoulders, emerald eyes sparkling with life and vibrancy, her body lithe and perfect despite three children. He felt the familiar heartache, the pain of longing that overtook him the very instant she made herself known to him. Resting in her arms was an infant, a young child nestled against her bodice in the peaceful sleep of the well-fed and content. His coloring was his father's, but he was his mother's son, delicate features and downy hair seeming almost too fragile for a man-child._

_For a single instant, he allowed himself the slightest surrender, allowed himself to imagine himself in this place. This is where he would be now, if only he had accepted the place in life she had offered him, accepted that sacred place at her side she held vacant for so many years, waiting in vain for him._

_He could imagine that these children had come from him, to hear the calls of "Daddy", and know they belonged to him. He could imagine the right to sleep beside her, hold her in his arms, was his own. He could imagine that this warm home would be there to greet him at the end of each long day, banishing the cold and loneliness of the outside world. He could imagine, but he could not make that a reality._

_Another man had sired these girls, earned the right to be called their father. Another man called this boy his son, would teach him the ways of the world and life. Another man shared her bed, held her in his arms. Another man would come through the doorway at any moment, be welcomed by this home's warmth; to toss aside his suitcase, loosen his tie, and hold out his arms for hugs that would be gladly given. Another man she called her husband._

_He could deny it all he wished, keep up the mantra of defiance he struggled to ingrain into his mind over the years. But there was no point in the end, to deny a truth that was so concrete. He loved her still. He did not want to love her, shouldn't love her. But he did._

_The feelings that once seemed so strange and new and glorious to the boyish dreamer now plagued the soul of the jaded man, festering and twisting inside his heart until it became just another invisible scar. A wound deep inside of him that refused to heal, only growing deeper as time passed him by. He would live century after century alone, for he was denied her presence at his side._

_The baby, Noah, shifted and fussed in her arms. Stroking the crown of feather-soft hair, murmuring in low, soft tones, she began to sing a familiar song to soothe her infant son. And he swept away as silently as he had come, leaving behind love and warmth, listening to the bittersweet echoes of her lullaby._

Peter's eyes flew open, his body trembling as he struggled to reunite the fantasy he had been living so vividly with the realness of reality. He shuddered for breath, blinking quizzically as a small hand cupped his cheek. The other hand was placed palm side-down onto his chest, his face gently turned the opposite direction until he found himself looking into the gaze of the object of his dreamscape.

"Hi," he rasped, a shy smile tugging at his mouth.

"Hi," she softly replied with a return of his smile, undisguised feelings glowing in her eyes. Tongue-tied, he was unsure what to do or say next, but Claire made the decision for him as she tilted her head up, lifting her lips to his.


	4. four

Days slowly turned into weeks and little changed about Peter and Claire's circumstances. Memories of their captivity were patchy at best, brief flashes of labs and white walls, or each other.

One thing that was worrisome to their families was the impossibility of separating the pair. Sandra had argued fiercely to bring her daughter home after her release from the hospital, but wherever Claire went, Peter was sure to follow, and Claire refused to be without him. The Bennets' apartment was small at best, and five people tripping over each other were sure to drive them all crazy. So, it was the Petrelli mansion they were ushered to.

They rarely strayed from one another, coming the point where when one showered or cleaned up in the bathroom, the other waited outside. They still shared a bed, constantly touching both by daylight and nighttime. Nathan had commented that he was surprised they didn't follow each other to the toilet. The snark, of course, covered the father's worry at the sudden intimacy between his brother and daughter. Both Nathan and Noah frowned upon it, and even Sandra and Heidi, normally more sensitive to emotional needs than their husbands, were becoming concerned.

The most distinctive change in Peter was rooted in the way he was with Claire. The only thing that stayed consistent was Peter being tender and attentive, whether as her family or her lover, as only Claire knew him, but in a matter of fourteen months, he had transformed from gentle-eyed dreamer to fierce protector. And Claire herself was skittish, shying away from most physical contact that wasn't her uncle. It was often her screams that filled the dark, nightmares of memories that haunted her, but still refused to be recollected.

Post traumatic stress disorder, Dr. Suresh called it.

"_PTSD is not something to be taken lightly. It's a serious condition that affects every aspect of the victim's life. Patients suffer persistent feelings of extreme fear, helplessness and horror. Nightmares, that may or may not consist of flashbacks, may plague sleep. Social situations can invoke tension of different degrees: feelings of being trapped or threatened, paranoid originating from the place or people around them. _

_It is important to understand the difference between a memory and a flashback. A flashback may vary in detail and circumstance, but is characterized by being extremely vivid. Flashbacks are usually triggered by any kind of reminder relating to the traumatic event. The flashback invokes any, or all, of the five senses, so that the flashback feels as real as if it is occurring in that instant. The things you feel, hear, touch, see or smell feel real as the very moment you experienced them."_

For now, they could only wait and see.

----

_She breathed a simple sigh of content, as her lover softly stroked her hair, lips pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. _

_As strange as their entire situation was turning out to be, Claire felt a stubborn refusal to let any of it go. Giving into defeat, she edged away enough to be out of reach of the caressing fingers of the bed's other occupant, shirting to face him. Peter's open, enticing quickly became one of puzzled concern as he took in her expression. "Claire, is something wrong?"_

"_Family brunch. You'll have to tell Nathan and Angela you've broken up with yet another girlfriend. What are you going to do?"_

_His confusion quickly changing to amiable anticipation, Peter quickly rolled his body out of the tangle of sheets and grasped her hips in both hands; he gently straddled her, supporting his arms on either side so not to crush her beneath him. Grinning down at her, he brushed a chaste kiss against her forehead. "Run away with you and elope, I think."_

_Had her mind not gone on a rollercoaster, followed by a rocket trip through space and beyond, Claire would have been able to think of a more intelligible answer. He could have rationalized, theorized, hypothesized, or seized, any of the above. Instead, she squeaked and tensed, staring wide-eyed at the wall beyond her lover's shoulder, her brain taking a temporary vacation. "Don't joke about something like that."_

_His boyish excitement ebbed; Peter frowned, brown eyes looking down at her quizzically. "Claire, what's wrong?"_

"_Theo asked me to marry me yesterday."_

_Burying his face in her neck, his body began to shake, and Claire smoothed a soothing hand up his spine. "What was your answer?"_

_She didn't respond. With all the promises he'd broken in the past, all of those he couldn't keep, her silence spoke volumes. _

He awakened in the night, trembling, broken out in a cold sweat, lost in the throes of his own chaotic consciousness, the aftereffects of the nightmare still lingering…no manifestations of his troubled senses but rather a monstrous what-if haunting him, mind and soul. It twisted and clawing its way into the darkest reached of his heart, his very perception of life around him.

His face was slick with tears, trailing unchecked over pale skin as more of their counterparts gathered in his eyes. His breath was ragged and uneven, his heart thundering in his chest as he willed his body to calm down. Once his body began to calm down from the sudden shock of the dream, Peter released himself from the bed sheets tangled around his legs, as he raised himself into a sitting position and fought against the familiar pang of disappointment that came upon the discovery that he was alone.

The room was dark and the heat was overwhelming, as he realized the window was shut and locked tight, leaving behind a stale, and stifling air. Peter fumbled for the switch to the small lamp on the bedside table, the sudden illumination that dominated the room startling in his lethargic state. The light filled every inch of the room, banishing away the shadows that had lingered only moments before.

He rose from the bed, making his way to the windowsill and slid the glass open, relief to his smothered feeling coming in the form of fresh, cool breeze filtering through the screen.

Taking in a deep, appreciative breath, it was only then that Peter realized what felt so out-of-place. He was alone in the room.

It wouldn't be the first time he found Claire sick and sweating on the bathroom floor, in the aftermath of a nightmare. He was only surprised that she had not woken him this time around…

…with the sounds of her screams.

----

Morning light spilled through the open-paned window, filling the room with a brilliant, amber glow. Beams of light spilled over the indistinguishable lumps contentedly cocooned in the bed sheets, causing a handsome face to twist into a grimace, haphazardly throwing a hand over his eyes to ward off the offending illumination. He reluctantly rolled away from the comfortable warmth of his bedmate, offering no more than a soft sigh at the loss of body heat. In a cat-like motion, he languidly stretched his limbs, arching his back.

Despite the nagging thought at the edge of his sleep-fogged mind of what the day was to hold, his face still held the soft, open expression lingering from the previous night's loving. A content smile touched his lips as he leaned on his sight to face the sleeping figure of his bedmate. Watching as the early morning rays danced across her flushed skin, he reached out his hand, his touch soft as a whisper as he slowly traced his fingers down the smooth, tanned back.

Fully awake, Claire lay still as possible, careful not to tense or interrupt the steady, slow pace of her breathing. It was a struggle not to move or moan under her lover's ministrations, feeling her heartbeat pick up, his breath struggling to catch. A pleasurable heat stirring inside, as the sensual touch caressed along her spine, suggestive and seductive as the fingers moved in intricate patterns along her waistline.

_The opaque night is thick and black as velvet as it wraps around them, much like his embrace as his arms slip strongly around her, holding her close as the night sheltered them from any prying eyes. The full face of the moon hung low in the sky, providing the evening's only illumination as the pallid lunar glow filtered down faintly, providing her with a faint view of his face outlined in shadow._

_His eyes were filled with a soft, loving light as he reached up and brushed away a stray lock of hair from her eyes, his touch delicate as if she were some fragile treasure he was hesitant to touch, and his expression tender as he gazed down at her. She smiled, and placed her hand over his, cradling his palm against her cheek._

_As he kissed her, he tasted of warmth and sunlight, and her senses were overwhelmed by the sensation of his body, naked skin gliding over hers, and the strong, masculine scent mixed with the lingering traces of lovemaking._

_The sweltering heat of the summer night bogged down on them, clinging to their skin in a dewy dampness, and they lay together, tangled in his sheets, beneath the night skies with only the stars and the city lights as their witnesses. She did not think of the ring that belonged around her finger or the people waiting for them, or the reality of her life as wife and mother of the children of another man. _

_She did not think of the past, or the future, the consequences that could precariously bring their world crashing down. She thought only of his kiss, and his touch, and the soaring elation that filled her heart every time she saw that soft light of love in his eyes.__For now, it was their own little world, void of any outsiders, and nothing existed but the two of them._

With a sharp gasp, Claire's eyes flew open. The stroking fingers stopped, and her body began to tremble. He smoothed a hand up the small of her back, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "You okay?"

"Claire?" His voice was soft and endearing, colored by tender warmth he reserved especially for her.

Peter.

She didn't even have to see him; she would always know him. It was in the way he said her name, with that gentle, loving quality, in a way that no one had ever given her. It was in the way his gaze settled on her, his hazel-brown eyes with the ability to both enthrall and soothe her.

_Anyone who would have seen him and recognized him that day would never admit to it, to have seen Dr. Peter Petrelli, son of New York's elite, accomplished physician, dashing in socked feet and dressed in little more than a wife-beater and scrub-bottoms through hospital corridors. His scrub top clutched forgotten in one hand, his Converse left in a locker room, he ran through hallways, dodging nurses, patients and other doctors in his haste. _

_He would be lucky no one stopped him, or that a supervisor would later deliver him a reprimand, but at the moment he could care less about anything but his intended destination. _

_He had just finished his shift, changing back into his street clothes when his cell phone had vibrated, his sister-in-law, Heidi, calling to give him the news. And as he stumbled his way into the hospital room he had been given the number of, it was an odd figure he struck. To see Claire lying in bed, pale and tired but positively radiant, she had never looked so beautiful. _

_With a brief sense of awkwardness, he drew his shirt back over his head, looking down at his feet as he nervously shuffled them, noticing his lack of shoes for the first time. "Where's your husband?" he whispered softly, as she turned her head toward him. _

"_Out of town," she replied, her voice equally as quiet before she turned her eyes back downward. _

_He approached with hesitant footsteps, reaching her side to brush away sweat-damp hair from her emerald-green eyes, soft with love and warmth. He gently kissed her forehead before turning his gaze to rest on the newborn babe slumbering so peacefully, contently in her mother's arms. _

_He smiled then, reaching out to brush his fingers against a small, flushed cheek, smoothing over the golden hair dotting the child's crown. "She's beautiful, Claire."_

"_Of course she is," she told him in a tone firm with resolution, slick with tears. She watched as he hesitantly and, ever so carefully, lifted the baby into his arms, cradling the tiny body against his chest. "She's your daughter."_

_His eyes shot to hers, startled, as she gave voice to something they had never spoken aloud. With her husband, Theodore, often out of town on business trips, with the frequency of their trysts together, Claire seemed to have little doubt about her daughter's paternity. _

"_What's her name?"_

"_Angelica. Angelica Rose."_

_Angelica. _

_Peter Angelo Petrelli. _

_Claire Rosalynn Bennet. _

_A single tear trailed down his cheek and he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of Angelica's brow. "Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse as he stifled further tears. _

_Claire shook her head, softly sobbing. "Please, don't thank me, Peter. Not with what you'll…what you'll-"_

_Secrets were something to keep, something to never say truth, and he knew that from this moment on, he would never be a real father to this precious little girl. _

_He caressed her cheek, gently brushing his lips against hers. "It's okay. It'll be okay."_

_He wished he was as confident as he tried to make himself sound. _

She blinked, shaking her head, and focused her attention back on the soft calling of her name.

His mouth stretched into a soft smile, the warmth of his fingers curling around hers as he took her hand. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

"Mmm….better."

He smiled again.

At a sudden thought, she tilted her head thoughtfully, reaching out to trace her fingers along the outline of his jaw. Her touch was light and whisper-soft, and as she grew bolder, let her fingers brush over the smooth skin of his cheek and chin, smoothing them across his lips. Her eyes followed every movement, committing to memory every feature, every angle and hollow. "I always feel better when you're here. It's like having a part of me I didn't know was missing come back to me."

He kissed the fingertips against his lips, accepting the turn of conversation. They had passed the point of avoiding conversations with such implications. "I know what you mean."

"I know you do," in emphasis, she lightly traced the arch to each eyebrow, wryly meeting his eyes. "It's in your eyes. It always has been."

Her hand moved to lie against his cheek. Leaning into her touch, Peter sighed softly. "From the moment we met, I think I've known."

"Did you find everything you were looking for that night? Did I disappoint you?"

He looked up at her through half-lidded eyes. "You would never disappoint me, Claire. You were so beautiful. I knew I'd found you."

Watching her face color, he brushed his lips against her palm, which only helped to darken her blush. He grinned. "I found my soul mate that night," he whispered, his voice soft and gentle, "The first time we met; it's what drew me to you."

He'd long given into the theory, that the other half of your soul could be found in anyone- a best friend, a family member, not just a lover. They were all those things, after all. She had been all that and more long before he first touched her with any kind of sexual intention. Someone who so completed you, made you whole…didn't need categorization. Especially when he had no idea how to label the two of them…so he found his conclusion.

Soul mate.

"No more denying it?"

"What's the point of denial? You're the other half of me, Claire Bennet. I can't hide it, not after everything we've been through." He drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her as she leaned against the warmth of his body.

She sighed contently. "I think we've always been drawn together," she said quietly, "Do you remember? Time and time again, we always find a way back to each other."

"Isn't that what we call fate?"

"I don't know. What do you think? Is it fate that brought us together?"

He tilted her head up to face him, his countenance gone solemn, and he leaned close, enough for the moist warmth of his breath to brush against her lips. "It doesn't matter whether it was fate, destiny or coincidence. I only know that whatever it was, it brought me to you." Closing the small distance, he kissed her.

Gentle and mild, his kiss was warm and tender, nothing more than the soft press of his lips to hers. He slowly pulled back, trailing feather-light kisses down her jaw and chin to her throat, pausing as he felt her fluttering beneath his lips. His gentle attentions stirred a familiar heat inside her, flooded with a kind of longing they had both worked so hard to deny. "Peter…" He rained kisses wherever his lips could touch, feeling her heart beat in time with his own.

But there was nothing held back as his mouth met hers again, nothing mild but equally as gentle, nothing chaste as he kissed her long and deeply. Passion underlined every emotion and sensation, every memory of the other's touch and the desire to feel it once more. He shifted his weight to gently press her back against the bed, as her hands gripped fistfuls of his shirt material. A soft moan fell from her lips, his body leaning flush into hers. Pushing away the warning in her mind, the urge to touch him became too great to resist, as trembling fingers made quick work of the buttons holding his shirt together. At the first hesitant touch to flesh, a combination of yearning and desire thundered through him, a strangled groan catching in his throat.

They broke apart at the need to breathe became too much to ignore. She leaned her head against his, gazing up at him with passion-glazed eyes. "Peter…"

Peter jerked back at the sound of her whisper, breaking away from their embrace. His eyes were dark and shadowed, the nightshirt hanging limply from his slender torso. "I'm s-sorry," he said hoarsely, his voice oddly choked.

"What for?" She couldn't think of anything he possibly had to apologize for, the situation only just creeping its way through the haze and confusion gripping her mind.

Idly toying with the hems of his shirt, he avoided her quizzical eyes, seeming caught between dejection and embarrassment. "I shouldn't have…I didn't mean to, well…" he trailed off awkwardly, running a hand through his hair with a quiet sigh as he pointedly gestured toward his open shirt, to convey his meaning where his words failed him.

Claire felt her face warm as he continued to speak, raising his head to meet her eyes. "I don't know what we'll do about this."

She gave him a wry smile, shaking her head. "Welcome to the club, Peter." They could talk of love and soul-mates all they wanted, but acknowledging their physical attraction was another ball field of denial. Controlling it was another issue all together.

It was way too early in the morning to contemplate all this, anyway.

Before he could respond, she suddenly paled, throwing a hand over her mouth as she jumped out of bed, dashing down the hallway. Peter followed at her heels. He found her bent over the toilet bowl and he kneeled beside her, holding back her hair. He winced sympathetically as he rubbed her back. Claire groaned, leaning her head against cold porcelain, and he kissed the crown of her head, standing up to fetch her a glass of water. He watched her worriedly as she swallowed, and he massaged the back of her neck. "That makes a week of this, sweetheart. I'm calling Mohinder."

She spared him a look. "I told you before. No doctors, Peter."

"Claire…"

She sighed, cocking her head in his direction. "It's an hour at best, and it'll go away soon. It's probably just withdrawal from the medication. Mohinder said detox could be messy."

Doubt filled him, the nurse in him rearing its head, and the gears in Peter's mind began turning. He had gone through the sickness, related to the pills that denied them use of their powers for all those months, clearing out of their system. Neither of them were yet a hundred percent, but this felt different. "Claire," he began hesitantly, "Do you think there's any chance you could be pregnant?"


	5. five

"_Claire," Peter began hesitantly, "Do you think there's any chance you could be pregnant?"_

Claire stared at him blankly. "Tell me you're kidding."

"Well…" he scratched the back of his head, looking anywhere but at her, "We didn't exactly use any protection back in the lab."

Her eyes closed painfully as she came to the same realization. Though it was something they had hidden from their families, they had admitted something to each other- something they both remembered, if vaguely.

Sex.

With each other.

Even if she couldn't summon up the needed mental images, she instinctively knew some things from time to time. Contraceptives weren't exactly encouraged by their captors. At least back then, it had been finish completely or die so there hadn't been much of a choice, but still…

"Oh, God…"

Peter reached out to grasp her shoulders. "It'll be okay, Claire."

Claire's eyes widened incredulously. "How is this okay, Peter? I'm nineteen, recovering from a year-long captivity I can barely remember, and am potentially pregnant with my uncle's baby! How is any of that in the realm of okay?"

He winced but quickly recovered, barely giving her time to register his wounded look. She sighed, her face softening. "I'm sorry, Peter. I don't mean to attack you."

His smile was forced, the hurt in his eyes still visible. "It's okay."

"It's not," she shook her head, eyes filling with tears, "Peter, what are we going to do?"

Peter said nothing, unable to find the needed words. Instead, he pulled her into his arms and Claire burrowed into his embrace, seeking the safety of him.

He wished more than anything that he could give her the right answer.

One test. Two tests. Three tests. Four.

No matter how they looked at it.

All of them came back positive.

It was morning already, the sun just peeking over the horizon. He stood at the open balcony door, letting the cool morning air rush into the already cold apartment, but he wasn't aware of the chill it brought to his bare torso. He wasn't aware of much of anything anymore.

His eyes hurt, heavy from lack of sleep. His head ached. Everything ached. Abruptly, he realized he really wanted to pummel something. He hadn't slept a wink the night before. He wondered if it would be the worry or the lack of sleep that finally made him deranged. His lips curled into a humorless smile at his cynical joke, running a hand through his hair, tousling the already messy black locks.

There were dozens of questions- dozens of worries- dozens of doubts; all of them running through his head, his emotions going wild. He threw back his head to watch the last of the sunrise, letting his mind wander back to the night before.

She had come to see him that night- to tell him she was going to have his child. He couldn't even remember how he had done it, but he'd given her both a miracle and the biggest complication of her life.

They had created a whole new life together. He closed his eyes, joy and thrill coursing through him, only to be chased away by the guilt and remorse. This had been the same thing running through his head last night.

She had need so much more from him last night. She had needed comfort, needed reassurance. She had needed _him_. All he done was turn away, when she had needed him the most. He had just run away. As much as he hated himself for it. As much as he hated to admit it. He was afraid. Fear wasn't something easy for him to admit. But it was there. He lacked so much that she would need. Still, he had to give everything he had to give.

He suddenly knew what he had to do.

Morning had finally come. Sunshine spilled in through the window, flooding the room with a golden glow. She almost felt that nature was making a mockery of her mood. Pulling the blanket tighter around her, she rolled away from the window. She hadn't slept very long. It surprised her she had been able to sleep at all. She had finally exhausted herself enough, crying herself to sleep. Even at the thought, tears crept into her eyes, and she irritably blinked them away. She was determined not to cry anymore. Tears wouldn't do anything for her now. She wished she could be stronger, feeling so weak and vulnerable. She knew she needed to be stronger, if she had to face this on her own.

He hadn't even come back to the house last night. Instead, he had turned and run from her. From them.

He didn't say a word. The look on his face was enough: wide-eyed and thunder-shocked. And he had run away. She couldn't blame him for it. She wanted to run away herself, just be able to escape the inevitable truth, that she was carrying their child. She was the only one that could not get away. She knew he was afraid. He would never admit such a thing, but he was. And still, she couldn't blame him for it. How could she, when she felt such fear herself? Just the thought of what was happening, enough to leave her trembling inside. It wasn't that she didn't want the child. She had always wanted a family of her own. But she wasn't ready to be a mother. She was only nineteen. What if she wasn't good enough? What if she couldn't give their baby what he or she needed? What if something was wrong with him or her, with Peter being their father…? What if their families completely rejected them for this? What if...

She needed him now. More than any other time before, she need him more than ever. She hated to need him, such a weakness when she needed to be strong. For her sake, for his sake, for their child's sake. She couldn't lean on him when he didn't want it. But still she did, if only they could lean on each other. She wanted his love. She wanted his support. Not just for her, but for the little life growing inside of her. She would bring that little life into the world. And give all the love she could, a love she already felt. Her baby. Her child.

He went to see her later that afternoon. It broke his heart to see the pain so evident in her expression. It broke him even more when she nearly slammed the door in his face. He pushed his way inside, intent on seeing her. He took her hands, feeling them small and smooth against his rougher palms. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let them open once again. Full of emotion- pain, regret, longing, but above all, burning with love.

He spoke to her gently, reassuring the best he could; trying to make her understand all that was going through his heart and head. She pulled away, turning away from him. He looked at her, hair shadowing most of her hair from him, tears in her eyes. She was well aware of his burning stare, but she could not bear to look his way. He pulled her into his arms, into a warm and strong embrace.

She couldn't hold it back any longer, and she fell against him crying. He held her closer, and she held him closer still, her arms in a desperate hold as if he would disappear.

He came to see her that afternoon, and it was complete shock to see him behind that door. She couldn't stop the waves of pain that came when she saw him. She held back the tears the best she could. It tore her heart to have him so close, and yet so far from her, though not knowing he was closer than she thought.

Seeing the regret in his eyes, she feared the worst, thinking he couldn't stay beside her. He caught her hands in his, even as she tried to get away. She couldn't help the shiver that ran through her, at the feel of rough, calloused palms she knew so well against her skin. She watched as he closed his eyes, wondering what he was doing.

And then he slowly opened again. It was her turn to stand in shock, unable to understand. His eyes, no wall keeping back his soul. No cold barrier to hide what he was feeling. Rich mahogany brown, full of love and warmth. He began to speak, and though half of it didn't make sense, with as fast as he talked, it still soothed her, with he tone he used, so warm and soft and reassuring. He became a different man right before her eyes, all over again.

She couldn't take it. She pulled away, turned away from him. Hair shadowing most of her face from him, tears in her eyes, she tried to hide from him. She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her very soul. He broke through her resistance, pulling her to him.

Her tears had long since stopped, and still she stayed in his arms, her head cradled in the crook of his shoulder. He sheltered her, sheltered them both, with soft, tender words, and the strong protection of his body.

"I love you." He smiled at the whisper of the three simple words that held his heart, and as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, he quietly returned them.

"I love you, too."

"Peter, we can't ignore this."

Peter sighed, throwing an arm over his eyes, as if he could guard himself from the forthcoming conversation. "I know that. It's just…God, Claire. I have no idea what to do with this."

"I don't, either, Peter, but I do know one thing. I want this baby, and ready or not, I'm going to be a mother to our child."

Peter took in an unsteady breath, turning his eyes to stare at the lackluster ceiling above them. He felt her familiar weight against his stomach, and thought back to another time when they had lain together this way. It was a wonderful sensation, waking up to feel her curled up against him, soft and warm, the weight of her hardly anything over him. It was a pleasant feeling of euphoria, a blissful completion like nothing he had felt before. She made him feel whole, complete; a heaven on earth.

He started. Claire tilted her head up, giving him a curious look. "Peter?"

He blinked, rubbing a hand against his forehead. "I'm okay. I just…remembered something."

"What?"

He hesitated for a moment, and then gave her a wan smile. "Just another time we were lying like this. We were talking…you were telling about your tenth birthday."

Humor filled her eyes, and she smiled. "Yeah, that was something else. Mr. Muggles-"

"…got scared when the piñata broke, and jumped up for your mom's lap. Except he missed…"

"…and landed right in my cake…" Claire laughed softly, and then sobered, looking a little sad. "I wish I remember that. Us having the conversation, I mean."

Peter said nothing, only kissing her forehead in silent reassurance. There was nothing he could say that could ease the pain of their mutual memory loss. With the flashes that did come now and then, recollections of good times were few and far between.

It was _their_ fault. Them, as Claire had begun to refer to _them_ in her mind, the unknown captors who had stolen so much of their lives.

"A father," he breathed. "It's so unbelievable. I'm a father."

Her breath caught, and she raised her head to look up at him with eyes full of a confusing emotion, half fragile hope, and half trepidation. "Is…is that what you want, Peter? Are you sure?"

A soft smile touched his lips, as he reached up a hand to cup her cheek, stroking with the pad of his thumb. "I mean it, sweetheart. I'll be there for you."

She pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, but he caught her chin in his hand, holding her lips to his, and he kissed her. It was gentle at first, mild as the chaste kisses they had frequently shared before them, and then it became something more. A shock that jolted through her, a heat that enveloped her as she leaned into his embrace, his arms across her back strong and unyielding. He held her tightly to him, simultaneously demanding and gentle, as he kissed her in a way that made her his, in a way that both thrilled and soothed her.

As he parted his mouth from hers, he planted feather-light kisses along the line of her jaw and chin, down to her neck, nuzzling his nose against the hollow between neck and shoulder. He exhaled and the moist breath was a warm caress against her skin. His hands skimmed from her shoulders and downward, tracing lazy patterns down her bare arms, stopping to meet the hem of her jeans at her waistline.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled up the t-shirt she wore, and touched slender fingers to the soft skin of her stomach. She pulled back just enough to watch him, intrigued, as his eyes locked on his hands as if mesmerized; following every motion as he ever so carefully caressed the skin of mid-drift, still flat and smooth despite the tiny life she carried inside. He smiled a strange, thoughtful smile she didn't have time to decipher before he bent his head and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss near her navel.

It was his baby, their baby, growing there inside her. His throat tightened with emotion, his mind flooded with awe.

He frowned reflectively, glancing back at her as he straightened and hugged her to him, kissed her again. His kiss was different this time, soothing, warm and chaste. It was a plea to trust him, a promise to protect her. _No_, she thought, as she raised one hand to tangle in his hair, the other resting against her abdomen, _to protect us both_.

He pulled away slowly, studying her carefully as he did. "We'll find a way to make this work, love. Trust me, please."

"I always have, Peter. I'm not going to stop now."

The city was bustling with activity on that late summer afternoon, passersby hurrying their way through the floods of bodies crowding the streets, intent on destinations only they knew. The amber glow of sunlight, its source handing low on the horizon, glinted in brief flashes of blinding illumination off the glass of buildings and metallic signs, flirting lazily with the cobalt shadows cast by looming skyscrapers.

Peter walked the streets with a slow, languorous air, the low drones of conversation around him, mixing with the occasional revving of a motor or resounding of a siren, drowned out by the soft music streaming from the headphones clipped to his ears. Occasionally he would mouth a few words or lines, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the messenger bag at his hip.

The weather was far from temperate, instead the sweltering heat most New York inhabitants feared in the summertime, and so he was predictably roasting in his khakis, Oxford shirt and tie. But after all the time and Claire had spent over the past month building tolerance for being away from each other and then out in public, he would give the heat a little leeway in lieu of their efforts. Music helped a little, muffling most of the noises around him and giving him something to specifically focus on. Claire had made sure his playlist was filled with several alternative bands-music full of lyrics instead of repetitive beats that could hold his attention. He took all the help he could get, especially when, granted, he was the one doing better in public settings. So, he ignored the way his shirt chafed against his skin as the fabric clung to his back, or the way droplets of sweat stung his eyes even as he wiped the heel of his hand across his brow.

He leaned against the brick expanse of a nearby building, shielding his eyes against he glare of sunlight, and he released a heavy sigh as he sank back against the wall. He stood there in his contemplations, mind buzzing through the events of the day as he watched the people pass him by with lazy observation.

He combed his fingers through his hair, inexpiably happy to feel the thick mess growing back out, however damp with sweat. Something that had been strangely, but particularly, humiliating, back in the lab, had been the forced shaving of his head. He found it odd that his memory chose to focus on something so seemingly miniscule, but its effect had been profound all the same. Claire seemed to sense it, and she made a point to lazily stroke his hair when they lay together, making the gesture seem casual though they both knew it was anything but. She would acknowledge the discomfort in him, do what she could to soothe him even if she didn't completely understand, but she would never think him weak for it.

He loved that about her.

He found the heat to be a greater adversary than he had initially anticipated as his eyes began to trail longingly to the rows of businesses on the other side of the street.

He stretched his arms and straightened, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he threaded his way through the streams of people. With a quick glance at his watch, he hailed a cab.

Later that evening, Nathan Petrelli strolled into toward his office in his home, intend on loosening his tie and tossing back a finger of whiskey. He paused in the hall, however, in front of the family room. Eyebrows arched as his gaze settled on a familiar dark-haired man seated on the couch. The other man did not raise his eyes or even take notice as Nathan came to a stop before him, focused intently on the newspaper spread on the coffee table in front of him.

Peter glanced up for the barest moment before bringing his attention back to the newspaper, mumbling a lazy greeting, the words muffled by the pen balanced between his teeth. "Hey, Nate."

Nathan's face creased with a frown, studying the other man before him. Peter seemed changed somehow, giving the impression of a family man considering his budget with the way he tangled his fingers through his hair, his brow furrowing with contemplation, creases of worry lines appearing between his eyes. The illusion is fleeting, leaving behind a very tired and stressed out Peter Petrelli. Nathan sighed, dreading already what could possibly be troubling his brother so deeply.

"Mind if I sit?"

"Do as y'like," Peter replied, his words muffled by a pen clenched between his teeth as Nathan seated himself on the couch beside him, sniffing experimentally at the coffee sitting in front of him. He withdrew as he found it strong and black. "God, that stuff will kill you."

Peter snorted, removing the pen from his mouth to circle particular columns on the newsprint. "A lot of worse things have killed me. Hell, I've been dead before."

"All the more reason not to make a habit of it."

Peter rolled his eyes, turning his head as he noticed the house's maid passing in the hallway. "Maria."

"Yes, Mr. Petrelli?" a matronly Hispanic woman, ten years of service to the Petrelli family behind her, approached them.

As the woman came into the room, Peter's manner changed, putting on his best charm as he smiled; his mouth curling into an open, warm gesture. "Would you mind getting some coffee for my brother? Cream and two sugars, I believe."

Nathan held up his hand. "Actually, Maria, make that a glass of bourbon on ice. You know where the key to the liquor cabinet is."

"Long day?" Peter questioned.

"You have no idea," Nathan glanced at his brother quizzically, "You remember how I take my coffee?"

Peter shrugged, turning his eyes away to concentrate once more on the newspaper. "I remember a lot of things. Besides, you've taken your coffee the same way since you were seventeen."

They sat in quiet for a few moments, Peter in deep concentration, Nathan in Peter-centric contemplation. He thanked Maria when she brought his bourbon and he leaned back as he took a deep drink, taking solace of the smooth, heated texture, settling warmly in his belly. As he sipped from the glass, he leaned in to catch a closer look of what his companion was studying. His eyebrows arched in surprise. "Want ads? I've already set you up with a job at Mt. Sinai."

"So?"

"Sooo," Nathan dragged out the syllable, irritated with Peter's nonchalant attitude, "Why are you looking for another one? I thought you liked nursing."

"I do."

"Okay…?"

"I'll be working shifts during the week. I'm looking for something on the weekends."

"…"

Peter grabbed the coffee mug beside him, tossing back a hearty gulp of the thick liquid without the slightest hint of a grimace. He paid little attention to the other's disgusted expression.

"How can you stand that stuff?"

"It's better than drinking."

Nathan stiffened at the round-about insult, but chose not to comment. He watched as Peter's body tensed, his jaw tightening prophetically under the scrutiny. Peter was rarely angry (at least in the past), but his brother recognized the signs as he scowled in a frustrated fashion. "Why are you staring at me? Planning to nag me more about the job?"

"Why are you taking two jobs? It's not like you need the money."

"Wrong."

Nathan cocked an eyebrow. "Need I remind you of the sizable trust fund in your name?'

Peter's expression twisted at the mention of his inheritance. "I'm not touching that unless I absolutely have to."

Nathan rolled his eyes. "You do have a way of making everything difficult, little brother. Just what are you looking at anyway?" As he shuffled over to look at his brother's employment prospects, he choked as he realized what the second page consisted of. "Apartments? What the hell, Peter?"

Peter snatched the paper out from under his hands and glared at him. "Leave it, Nathan. I can't stay here forever."

Nathan opened his mouth to retort, and then thought better of it, rising to his feet to make his way to bed. He took leave of his brother with a half-hearted wave.

As he rounded the corner, out of sight, Peter buried his head in his hands and groaned. Crisis averted for now.

Now…if he could just figure out how to tell his brother that he had knocked up his daughter, and how.


	6. six

**A/N: I got to thinking, and I realized I've never really explored early S1 Peter's attitude toward his brother and the rest of his family. The way he idolized Nathan, and seemed to go out of his way to please him, Angela as well, if at a lesser degree. Naïve, puppy-dog Peter wore his heart on his sleeve, and I think he had trouble relating to Nathan and Angela's harsher personalities. That, and their criticism, probably originated from his childhood onward. Disapproval over his career choice, his sensitive personality, his dreamy nature, etc. So I decided to explore that in this chapter. **

They had talked it through, again and again, every detail, every scenario that came to mind, and still they could not find a solution. Bodies lay entwined, arms around one another, legs entangled, her head pillowed against his chest, nestled deep in his embrace as if he meant to shelter her from the world. And it was his greatest wish, to protect her, an air of hopelessness settled in their silence, their mantle of responsibility seeming heavier than ever before.

Peter lay with the love of his life in his arms, trying to lose himself in her, as he had always been able. Her touch, her scent, the feel of her arms around him could make the world slip away. But now, his worries weighted too heavily on her mind and heart, and he was unable to escape.

"This is hopeless," he said dejectedly, feeling her eyes on him before the words had even passed through his lips. He turned his head to meet her gaze, already knowing what he would find there. Calm, reassuring orbs of green, mingled with hope and trust that made him feel the weight of his doubts even more. He tightened his arms around her, his precious calm in the storm.

"I haven't had the need to plan for the future in a _long_ time, Claire. My job at the hospital's barely enough to support one person, let alone three. I have no savings, no place of my own. I have no idea how we'll do this."

"There has to be a way, Peter. Maybe we're just not seeing it."

Peter huffed, irritably combing his fingers through his dark hair. Claire laid her forearm across his chest, using it to prop up her chin as she carefully studied him. "What about the family? Nathan, maybe Angela?"

He sat up slowly, taking her with him. She felt his body tense, felt his eyes settle on her, harsh and disconcerted. She inwardly winced, knowing full well what was coming.

"What!"

She sighed, bracing herself for the upcoming battle. "My father, Peter. Your brother. He could help us."

His jaw set in a familiar, stubborn line she knew well. "No. I won't."

"Why not? We have to tell them soon anyway. After he gets over the shock, Nathan will realize this baby is his granddaughter…niece…whatever."

"Claire-"

She cut him off, "We don't have many choices at the moment, Peter."

"The hell I do. I won't, for any reason, accept any of the Petrelli's dirty money. And the last thing I want to do is put myself in Nathan's debt, or God forbid, Ma's."

She knew he had a point. She didn't trust his mother/her grandmother any further than she could throw her. While Peter still had major trust issues with his brother after Nathan's betrayal three years before, she had come to trust her father, love him, and she knew Nathan loved them both in return- deeply.

She lifted from her place against him to sit on the edge of the bed, if only to put some distance between them. "I could work, too. You don't have to take on all this on your own."

"We've already been through that. You said you wanted to go back to school, even if it's only online classes. That on top of a newborn…?"

"What about you? What about your dreams to go back to college, work on a medical degree? It's alright for you, but not for me?"

"That's different! You're not like me, Claire."

She paused, anger momentarily forgotten as she caught the undercurrents in his tone. "Peter…what do you mean by that?"

"You and I aren't the same, love. You still have a real future ahead of you. I'm not letting you leave school. I won't let your life get screwed up like mine."

"God, Peter." He turned to her as he felt her hand touch his, enveloping her smaller palm in his. "You're exasperating. You're a hero, Peter. You're a kind, giving person who does all he can to help people. All those thoughts you have about not measuring up, is so far from how I think of you. I never have."

She leaned in to kiss him softly, and Peter's eyes closed, a slow breath expelling from him. "I love you, Peter, and that's what matters. Alright? Besides, this shouldn't be about that. This isn't about me, or you, my future, or your pride. Baby, we need help."

She leaned her head against his shoulder taking solace in the solid muscle beneath her cheek, and the strong arm that wrapped around her waist. Stubborn and exasperating aside, his strength, not just of body, but of spirit and heart as well, was something she always found so wonderful about him, something unwavering.

But despite that, she knew there were parts of him that were still that little boy who never seemed to measure up, from his grades to his friends, to his table manners, the young man whose every step and choice had been analyzed and disapproved of. Attending a community college, a nurse instead of practicing law- not even bothering to medical school to secure a more _dignified _career. Backpacking across Europe, serving two years in the Peace Corp, all instead of joining the military like his older brother.

She knew those fears and insecurities eh were so afraid to show. She wanted to be there to curb those anxieties, to chase away those fears. She wanted him to let her.

"We can do this, Peter. Together. But we need help to get there."

Raising their entwined hands, Claire brushed her lips over his knuckles. Only silence met her for a long pause, and when he spoke again, there was a note of finality, of surrender, in his voice that signaled a temporary end to their quarrel. "…Let me think on everything some more. Maybe things will look different in the morning. Then, we'll figure out how to tell everyone about the baby."

He kissed her hand, giving her a wry smile. "Are you going to sleep here tonight?"

She shook head, her slight smile resigned, a bit sad. "No, I don't think that would be a good idea. I have to do this on my own."

For a moment, he appeared as if he might protest, a tinge of longing flashing through his eyes, but he gave in, kissing her temple before gently resting his head against hers. "I'll see your in the morning, then."

She nodded, planting a half-hearted kiss on his cheek before leaving him alone in the room with the shadows of the descending sun and his own thoughts. A familiar feeling bore down on him in her absence, telling him he didn't deserve the happiness he felt being with her, the anticipation he felt when he thought of their family-to-be. It was in moments like this that he remembered that her entire world was about to be torn asunder, torn apart, and it was all his doing. That she had a responsibility to bear that she should have never been given, and it was all his fault.

_Just be careful, Claire…_

Deciding to confront Nathan and the rest of the Petrelli family the next morning, without Peter (who was currently at work) was probably the worst decision she had made in a while. In her defense, her intensions were good- thinking that if she talked to Nathan first and made him see reason, she would be less inclined to kill Peter and listen calmly to the whole explanation.

While this was still likely, the stress of the meantime was clawing at her.

Nathan Petrelli has always considered himself a reasonable man. Reasonable, rational, if stubborn, but that was just a trait most Petrelli men (and women) shared. He tried to be that kind of man, that kind of father, and for his nearly forty years of life and his years of fatherhood and marriage, he had tried to hold to those ideals. He was no saint, yes, but he found those ideals sorely tested, however, as he was faced by one of a father's worst nightmares made flesh. His baby girl, his only daughter since he and Heidi had been unable to conceive again after Simon and Monty, had been with a man, and now she carried a child out of wedlock. Defying everything he held to be true about his daughter.

It took all the strength of his will, all his love for Claire, to keep his voice calm and steady, hold back the anger and hurt that welled up inside him. He sighed, his breath husky and ragged, grateful for the table obscuring the view of his fists clenching at his sides. "Pregnant, Claire. How could you do something so reckless?"

Claire sat across from him, her eyes miserable and apprehensive as they were directed towards the hands folded in her lap. She dared to raise her hands to meet her father's, instantly recoiling at the betrayal she found there. "Dad…"

"No, not even reckless. Incredibly stupid!"

At that, Heidi Petrelli placed a tentative hand on her husband's arm. "Nathan, darling, perhaps you should take a little while before we talk about this further. Or at least try to calm yourself."

Absently, Nathan patted the hand resting on his arm, giving the small reassurance as he could as he kept his eyes locked on his daughter. "I don't think so, dear."

"Nathan, please."

Nathan sighed, reluctantly conceding. "Alright. For now," he looked at Claire resignedly, "I promise not to lose my temper again."

Tears pooled in Claire's eyes, obscuring her vision, as she wrapped her arms protectively around her middle. She could never stand to see that kind of hurt, that kind of rage in Nathan's eyes. Pain, disappointment, anger, all of that she could expect, but his belief that she had betrayed his trust cut her deeply, and it was something neither he nor she would be able to easily forgive.

"D-Daddy, I can never say how sorry I am…"

It was a sign of how distraught she was that she was calling him Dad, let alone Daddy, something she reserved occasionally for private, or emotional moments. Nathan sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face, while Heidi found the other, their fingers tightly enlacing. If anything, this could remain the constant in his world, violently changing at that world was. His wife's support, his own reassurance. His anchor was ten years of marriage with this woman, how had brought his two wonderful sons into the world. This was his defeat, the breakthrough to get beyond his bluster. His little girl was scared and hurting.

"Claire, sweetheart. Tell me how this happened."

Claire hesitated, swallowing hard, tears still glistening in her eyes. "It was…it was, back when Peter and I were in that…place."

Nathan blanched, his face turning a decisive shade of green. Heidi's grasp on her husband's tightening almost painfully, she fought back tears as she recognized she and Nathan had come to the same conclusion. "Honey, were you…?" she trailed off, a wave of revulsion washing over her at the very thought.

Claire winced as she picked up on the unspoken thought, shaking her head. "No, I wasn't," she shuddered, forcing out the word, "_Raped_."

"Then what…why?"

Claire dropped her eyes. She felt suddenly tired, the weight of the past week pressing down on her worse than ever before. The thought of her and Peter's struggle only beginning, only exhausted her more.

"Claire…" Nathan said softly, reaching out with his free hand, enveloping his daughter's trembling fingers in a warm and reassuring grip. "If you weren't….forced…what happened? Who was it?"

"Another prisoner," Claire uttered, an air of reluctance palpable to her words, "The…people who held us had sick sense of humor."

Nathan's eyes narrowed. "Do you have a name?"

Her head shot up, her eyes wide; as she felt fear for the first time she could remember in Nathan's presence. Hesitation, yes; anger, yes; desperation, yes; but never fear. "Nathan, please. Don't do anything yet."

"His name, Claire."

"Promise me, Dad."

"Fine, you have my promise. But give me his name."

Claire ducked her head, her hair falling forward around her face, and took in a deep, shaky breath in a hope to somehow steel his resolve. "Peter. It's Peter."

The eerie silence that followed was broken suddenly by the sound of a car in the driveway. Nathan quietly excused himself, his face misleadingly expressionless as he rose to his feet and left the room. Heidi faced her stepdaughter, struck silent and shocked by her admission.

"Claire," she began softly, hesitantly.

"Heidi," Claire broke in, her expression pale and harried, "Please don't judge us yet. There's so much more to the story."

Heidi nodded, giving the young woman as reassuring a smile as she could. "Alright, honey."

Nathan left the tense atmosphere, making his way down to the garage that housed the half-dozen vehicles the family owned. His eyes landed on a tall, lean man getting out of a small two-door, shuffling with his keys and two large bags as he nudged the car door shut with his foot.

Nathan's jaw clenched as he watched these happenings, and the other man's raised his head, quizzical brown eyes locking with his own. Nathan fought the urge to snarl.

Peter was home.


	7. seven

**Paroxysm **

By alaricnomad

"_They threatened her, Nathan. They held a gun to the back of her head and threatened to kill her if I didn't comply. I can still hear the cock of that hammer…the look in her eyes, so scared, the way she was shaking but trying to be strong."_

Nathan stood in the doorway to the living room, watching the pair seated together on the sofa. He frowned deeply, his brow furrowing as he fought for words.

"_I protected her the best way I could. She might have forgiven me for the hurt I caused her for that protection, but I haven't forgiven myself. So I don't expect you to forgive me. But by God, Nathan, she's alive. And she's home."_

His eyes caught Claire's, full of angry betrayal, and Nathan changed his mind, looking between them once more with a tense expression and a clenched jaw. He gave up with a sigh. "We'll talk in the morning," he said quietly, and retreated, stomping passed them and down the hall, likely headed for his office, and the liquor cabinet that resided there.

Silence fell over the pair left behind and they shared a look, Peter's eyes dark with tired frustration, Claire's bright with the glisten of quietly gathering tears. Claire rested her head on Peter's shoulder, Peter slipping an arm around her shoulders in response. She leaned against his side, fitting to him so seamlessly it was more than natural. Her hands coming to wrap around his neck, her fingers clutching at his neck, and he turned toward her, felt her trembling.

He moved his arms to her waist and pulled her into his lap. She tilted her head up, her cheek smoothing over his as they moved so their foreheads touched. She let out a shaky breath, shifting so she straddled his hips, desperate to be closer to him.

Still shaking, she burrowed her face into the crook of his neck, finding the warm, smooth skin she had been craving, rubbing her nose against his nape with relief. Peter tightened his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. Brushing his lips against her neck, he breathed out slowly, closing his eyes.

xx

Later that night, Peter went looking for his niece, after Claire had been missing for nearly an hour after they parted company to get ready for bed. A bed they had no longer been sharing for nearly a week now. Though he wasn't sure if the same would hold tonight. Back when they were captives, Claire had always clung so close to him after a beating, but she had been the one who so strongly advocated the need to now sleep apart.

_They were idly lying on his bed, Peter's arm draped around her stomach as Claire rested her head on his chest, fingers drawing nonsensical patterns against his naked skin. He deeply inhaled at the contact, the muscles of his bare chest contracting and then relaxing beneath her touch._

_"Penny for your thoughts?" she murmured softly, slowly running her fingers up his arm. The fine hair dotting his forearms was soft beneath his fingers, smoothing out when she traced over the definitions of his bicep. The contrasts of his body had always fascinated her; so blatantly, powerfully male, but capable of being so gentle with her. She gently pressed a kiss to his shoulder, waiting for his answer._

_He blinked sleepily, "Mmm, I don't know if they're worth that much."_

_She tilted her head up to look at him. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"_

_He swallowed against the harsh lump rising in his throat. She noticed his hesitation and propped herself up on an elbow to see him more clearly. "What is it, Peter?"_

_"Claire…" he sharply inhaled, exhaling again in a harsh rush of air. "I don't want to lose you."_

_She gave him questioning look, reaching over to stroke his face. "What brought this on? Is it what we talked about earlier?"_

_Earlier that evening, Claire had made the unexpected announcement that she now felt comfortable attempting to sleep away from him. This was to be the one last night she wanted to spend curled up at his side._

_"…I'm just…" He shrugged, unable to convey the full feelings._

_For a long moment, Claire didn't speak, and the more the silence extended between them, the more Peter's stomach knotted with continued insecurities. And then she was wrapping her arms around his neck, guiding him to lay with her, Claire sinking back onto the mattress as she pulled him atop of her. She ran one hand through his hair, keeping the other around his neck to tenderly stroke the dip between his shoulder-blades. "Talk to me."_

_With a deep sigh, Peter relaxed against her body. "I don't want to be selfish, sweetheart, but I don't want to let this go. I like being close to you, and I'm not just talking in the literal, physical sense. I know it's not logical, but I feel like I'll lose that after tonight. Like you'll drift away from me."_

_"Peter…I like being close to you, too. It feels good…special. It's closer than we've been since…" A light blush touched her cheeks. "You know…" He did know, and it felt wonderful that they had rediscovered the closeness and the connection without having to define the line as a sexual relationship. _

_She brought a hand to rest against the back of his neck, brushing her thumb against his hairline in a slow, continuous stroking. "I don't think there's any single word for what we are, Peter, but I don't want to lose what we have either. Not after everything we've been through. I won't let it happen."_

_It was moments like this when he remembered the incredible amount of strength this seemingly frail body chose to hide. All the times he felt so badly compelled to shelter her, protect her, hold her close until absolutely nothing in the world could harm her, he often forgot she harbored a compulsion to do much the same for him._

"_Besides," she continued humorously, her eyes holding a mischievous glint, "I'm kind of pregnant with your kid. If that doesn't connect us, I don't know what does."_

_Peter gave her a warm, languid smile, turning into her touch to kiss her palm, "Why are you so good to me, Claire Bennet?"_

_"Because you're my hero. You're the person I trust most in this world. I love you."_

_"I love you, too."_

The bathroom was his next place to look, and though he received no answer to his polite knock, he could hear the water running. He and Claire were alone in this part of the house, surrounded only by guest rooms, and it was without second thought that he went in.

The first thing Peter heard upon softly closing the door behind him was the unmistakable sound of Claire's crying. It was never a heavy sound, she neither sobbed nor wailed, something adapted during their captivity. They'd done their damn best to keep to the old adage; never show fear, never show weakness. Instead, it was a quiet, gasping rhythm of shuddering breath, something that would not be audible to just anyone above the noise of the running shower. But Peter was closely in tune with Claire, and he knew the sounds of her distress better than his own breath.

He partially pulled back the curtain, exposing the sight of her. She was huddled in the corner of the bath, knees drawn up to her chest and head buried in her arms as she quietly cried.

"Claire…"

Her head whipped around to face him, her eyes widening at the sight of him. "Peter?" she wiped at her eyes, making a sound halfway between a sniff and a mortified laugh. "I'm sorry. I just can't stop crying."

"You don't have to apologize."

_The first hit caught him completely by surprise. By the second, some of the shock had begun to wear off. The third came with a profound sense of betrayal on both sides. _

_His grocery bags hit the concrete of the garage floor hard and Peter heard the cracking of the eggs he'd picked up. Nathan fell over him with fierce, furious fists, and the two men collapsed to the ground. _

"_Nathan! Fucking hell, Nathan, stop!"_

"_My daughter. My fucking daughter, Peter!"_

He watched for a moment, thoughtful, and then suddenly decisive, he stepped back. Her eyes widened as he pulled his shirt over his head, reaching down to his belt. "Peter, Nathan and Heidi…"

"Are on the other side of the house. Even if, I don't care. Do you?" His eyes were soft but questioning as they met hers and slowly, Claire shook her head. He smiled, finishing with his belt and then the button and zip to his jeans. Socks and underwear followed and fully nude, he stepped into the shower with her.

He was immediately enveloped in a wet heat as he closed the curtain behind him, reaching out to give her a hand up. A tight embrace, bodies pressing together with loving intimacy. Hands glided over flesh, hot, wet and sleek. The added slickness of soap as they washed. The taste of water on skin, simple and clean, as lips pressed to cheek, neck and shoulder.

"I never wanted to see that happen to you again," she whispered, face cradled in the crook of his neck.

They were entwined tightly, his arms around her, and Peter sighed, leisurely caressing a hand up her back. "I never wanted you to," he admitted softly.

He knew that eventually, he and Claire would have to admit to others the deeper feelings between them, that it was practically impossible now to go back to a purely platonic relationship. But for now, he supposed his brother would be too caught up in his own demons to notice the changes between his daughter and baby brother, things that could no longer be attributed to the need for comfort the more time passed and both slowly moved on from their ordeal.

At least he hoped they were moving on. Today may turn out to be a major setback for them both, Claire especially. He could only hope beyond hope that he was wrong.

Claire nuzzled against his neck, pressing a kiss to his pulse point, pausing at the steady fluttering beneath her lips, and she smiled. He felt the smile and he returned it with one of his own, brushing his mouth against her temple. She was warm and wet and soft, and when she shifted against him, he was hit by that awareness of her, beautiful and precious to him, bringing up attractions and passions no one else ever could and it stirred him in a wonderfully tricky way.

_With new clarity, Peter realized Claire must have gone ahead and told her father about her pregnancy without him. Though falling into the familiar guilt swamping through him was tempting, instinct won out over letting his brother pummel him to death. Nathan might have been the boxing champ during his military career, but he was the one who had taught a teenage Peter how to defend himself against bullies. _

_Years working behind a desk versus the months Peter had spent conditioning his body during his imprisonment, Peter managed to dislodge Nathan's hold on him and deftly maneuvered out from underneath the older man. He stood up, holding his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. _

"_Nathan, wait! Let me explain!"_

_But Peter had underestimated his brother's temper, as Nathan moved to attack him again. _

Heat spiked through him, sudden awareness that it wasn't just the woman he loved and cared for, pressed against him, but a beautiful woman- breasts and curves and legs, and that heat did nothing but grow. He closed his eyes as something pulled in his loins, inwardly berating himself as Claire felt the unmistakable evidence of him hardening at her hip.

He looked away uncomfortably, attempting to pull away. But Claire held tight to him. "I'm sorry," he murmured guiltily.

She shook her head. "Don't worry about it." She rested her head against his chest. "I just want you close."

He leaned his chin against the top of her head and sharply exhaled. "Okay."

_Peter understood Nathan's rage, his sense of betrayal, he really did. But after over a year of beatings and other physical intimidations, the familiar feelings of anger, fear and helplessness overruled his rationale, and he felt betrayed himself. For over a year, those guards had belittled him, demeaned him, made him feel like so much less than the man he was. And now his brother was managing to do the same. _

_Those feelings were clearly echoed in Claire when she and Heidi found them a few minutes later, Claire screaming and crying for Nathan to let him go, to just stop. How many times, Peter thought guiltily, had she seen him beaten down and bloody? How many times over the last year had she been helpless and afraid, as a direct result of seeing things done to him?_

_In the end, he was the only one not surprised at the way she clung to him after Nathan rolled off him, hands frantically moving over places she logically knew had already healed over. He held her tightly, even more so as she began to tremble from her silent sobs. _

They stepped out of the shower as the water grew cold, Peter wrapping a towel around his waist, holding out her robe to her. She slipped into it and as she was pulling it closed and belted it tight, Peter watched her with warm eyes. "You know," he said matter-of-factly, "My eggs ended up all cracked earlier. I guess I'll have make you something other than omelets in the morning."

Flipping her hair to expertly twist a towel around the wet mess, she straightened up to arch an eyebrow at him. "That omelet you were bragging about earlier, the one your college roommate taught you to make because it was good for hangovers?"

He waggled a finger at her. "Hey, I'll have you know that's not the only reason we made them. Eggs have plenty of protein. They're good for you."

"That's true. But I'm pretty sure the bacon and hash browns you're supposed to stuff in that thing aren't."

"Hush. There's plenty of veggies to balance it out. It's not like you don't need the calories anyway."

That must have been the most roundabout way she had ever heard a guy tell a woman she _wasn't _fat. She rolled her eyes and he leaned down to playfully nuzzle his cheek against hers. Her nose wrinkled up for a moment and he looked down at her questionably. "What?"

She smiled wryly. "It scratches."

He ran a hand over his face, remembering his mind had been elsewhere so much lately, and it had indeed been several days since he had shaved, creating a mess of stubble that itched against his face. He moved to rectify it and when she shyly asked if she could do it for him; he had no reason to object, leaning against the counter to fulfill her request.

They were quiet as she worked up lather between her hands, her fingers lithe and gentle as they guided the razor across his skin, only pausing to cup his chin in order to angle his head. He reveled in the feel of her touching him so softly, rinsing and then gently padding a towel to dry him off. She ran the back of her fingers along his jaw-line and he smiled at her. "Better?"

She nodded. "Better."

"Glad you approve." He commented wryly.

She glided her fingers over his skin once more, murmuring softly. "Smooth."

He mimicked her actions, stroking her cheek. "Soft," he countered.

He leaned his forehead against hers and they smiled at each other. They said nothing, letting the many things filling the silence speak for them.


End file.
